The Way Down
by Lettered
Summary: Five years after the war, Harry sees himself as a danger to society.  Draco reminds him he's a human being.
1. Chapter 1

All was well.

Harry had defeated Voldemort. He'd become an Auror, had a woman he loved by his side, friends he loved as much at his back. A life of family, adventure, success, or all three spread out before him.

Of course there was the part about how defeating Voldemort just might have driven him mad.

And about how being an Auror probably drove him madder still. As evidenced by the minor incident in which he'd managed to Splinch three foreign dignitaries. And when he'd made dragon abandon her eggs with a wave of his hand. And defeated an entire army of Inferi single-handedly. In one night. And there was also that time he killed Dolores Umbridge. Accidentally. With his brain.

And as for the woman he loved by his side: at first, it'd just been a monster in Harry's chest when he knew other men were looking at Ginny, wanting her. But then it had begun to claw inside him when anyone looked at her, and then when she looked at anyone else. The problem was with her being by his side—he didn't want her to leave, not ever; he wanted to own her, possess her, control her. He didn't want Ginny to cross the room to get herself a glass of water, and he knew that this must be wrong.

He felt the monster sometimes even with Ron and Hermione; he was jealous of them too. He was jealous even of the way they loved each other; he wanted them to stop; he wanted them to include him; he thought of them in ways he shouldn't; he didn't know what he wanted.

Harry woke up sometimes in King's Cross. The platform was covered by thin mist, silver in the dream-light. Something there was crying. A broken, mutilated thing was crying. It was under the chair. It was under the stairs. It was a child; it was dying inside every dark place.

Harry never saved it, and woke up.

Maybe the thing inside was Voldemort, still at work. Maybe Voldemort had given Harry something of himself the second time the Dark Lord had lobbed a killing curse at the Boy Who Lived, just like the first time. Maybe Voldemort had made a last Horcrux the moment before he died; maybe it was a piece of the Dark Lord's soul inside Harry welling with power, scraping against his ribs and heart, hungry for revenge, possession, control, life. Harry was more powerful than he had ever been. He was more powerful than almost anyone had ever been.

Or perhaps, in defeating Voldemort, Harry had gained not the presence of the Dark Lord within him, but something more of himself. Maybe it made sense that Harry Potter could dance with dragons and kill people with a glance; he had defeated the most powerful wizard in existence. Maybe, having saved all their lives, it was even right that he should be in control; maybe it was just that he should do whatever he wanted, how he wanted to.

Just like the Dark Lord.

Naturally, Harry couldn't stand the thought. So he quit the Aurors for a life of wild depravity, and quit Ginny Weasley for a long line of prostitutes and desperate characters. Of course, wizarding papers had a field day with Harry Potter's descent into the depths, but Harry thought that in living a life filled with parties, wild society, irresponsible, ill-advised liaisons, he would be putting no one in danger but himself.

Which, of course, was utterly untrue. He could hurt everyone.

After twenty months, he quit the life of wild depravity for the life of a subdued hermit, and quit relationships completely.

As for the bit about his friends at his back, he turned his back on them altogether.

Well, Harry did get better. Eventually.

That's what this story is about.

* * *

The first time Draco Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, twilight was just falling.

Harry felt the wards breach and went outside. Forearms on the fence that was not white, he watched the small figure on the field progress down the slope into the form of a man. There was no road down.

The man strode through the grass, which came up knee high or to thigh and was interspersed with weeds. As the figure came closer, Harry could see his hair was so light it was almost white. He wore a cream colored suit without a waistcoat, the jacket slung over his shoulder. His shirt was white, open at the throat.

The light that time of evening was magical. The man's hair was painted gold, his shirt likewise; the line of his throat shone gold. Gold glowed all around him. When the man was at last at the gate, Harry needed a moment to realize that the features were pointed, the expression pinched. The posture was arrogant and proud, and the turn of the lip was ugly. Of course it was; it was Draco Malfoy.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry had not moved.

"Hullo, Harry Potter."

His tone was easy, laid-back, but underneath was a current just as snide as Harry remembered. "Some people put up wards for a reason," Harry said.

"We've all heard how you want to be alone to feel sorry for yourself and brood."

"Sod off."

Carefully, Malfoy put his jacket over the top rung of the gate. "I think I'll stay, thank you."

"What do you want?" Harry asked again.

Malfoy appeared to be considering. "It has to do with Granger," he condescended to answer at long last.

Harry went very still. He had not seen Hermione in six months. "What about Hermione?"

"So you do care about her." Malfoy's expression now was smug.

"I said, what about her," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Did you know she's going to have a baby?"

"I—what?" Harry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, like a sickness only worse. It came to settle somewhere at his center, hard and tight, twisting him all the way up to his throat.

"Due in three months."

"How do you know about . . . Hermione?"

Malfoy hummed again, looking very nonchalant, or else self-satisfied. "When was the last time you talked to her?"

"Why should I believe anything you say?"

"My, my. Aren't we touchy." Malfoy started inspecting his nails.

Harry could feel himself getting angry. The tight feeling spiraling up from his gut to his throat was beginning to claw, and soon he would not be able to keep it down. This was why he hadn't seen Hermione. This was why he hadn't been seeing anyone. He was not fit to be near other human beings, and Malfoy had no right to make implications. Malfoy had no idea. "Fuck you," Harry said.

Malfoy nails apparently fascinated him. "No, thank you. I expect you don't want further information on Granger, then, if you're going to be in a strop."

Harry's knuckles were white. "I don't need to find out about Hermione from you."

"Oh, yes. I imagine you're in splendid touch with her. Owl her regularly, do you? Take afternoon tea?"

"What business is it of yours?"

Malfoy at last seemed to grow bored of his nails. He rolled his eyes. "Because everything revolves around you, Potter. Or have you forgotten? I happen to work in the Ministry of Magic. Granger happens to be my immediate supervisor. Honestly, you can't have been ignorant of this fact. Or does your complete lack of attention to people you presume to call friends—"

"Shut up."

"Someone has to talk sense to you."

"No," Harry said, turning around. "No one really does." He went back into the cottage.

Malfoy stood at the fence and watched him go.

* * *

The second time Draco Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, Harry knew that he should not go down to the fence. He should not open his mouth. He should pretend Malfoy was not there at all. In fact, he should hex Malfoy into next week so Malfoy couldn't be there at all. He could eliminate Malfoy completely if he wanted. That was why Harry went down to the fence: he was afraid of what he might do otherwise.

Harry had come to Chimera Downs to protect his friends and everyone else from such impulses. He had meant to learn to control the monster in his chest, to lock it away so that it could never hurt anyone. He had been in Chimera Downs six months, and was no further along than he had been when he had arrived. He needed more time, and Malfoy wasn't helping.

Malfoy walked down the slope. Again he wore white, his lean torso a shadow in the thin shirt, silk translucent in the light. Somewhere between Malfoy and the setting sun, a crane rose from its nest, spreading wide milk wings.

When Malfoy came up to the fence, he laid his jacket over the rail. "Hullo, Potter," he said softly, as though he were there at the gate by appointment.

Harry scowled darkly and said nothing.

Slowly, Malfoy smirked. "Granger sends regards."

Harry's hand itched by his side. He still said nothing.

"Actually," Malfoy went on conversationally, "she's a bit too busy with her life falling apart to pay much attention to you. Sorry. I know you like attention."

Harry's hand clenched into a fist.

"It's Weasel. Naturally. Weasel never was good enough for her."

Harry felt like he was going to hurt Malfoy. He made himself stop, forcibly unclenching his hand and his jaw. He turned his face away. "What about Ron?" he asked, voice quiet.

"You know Weasel. Always the coward. The moment anything becomes difficult, he turns tail."

Harry opened his mouth, because Ron wasn't a coward; he never ran away; he stood up to anything and everything and he did it by Harry's side. Draco Malfoy was a prat, and Malfoy calling Ron a coward was—but Ron wasn't by Harry's side any more.

"It's the idea of being a father that Weasel can't handle," Malfoy went on. "He's a failure, not good enough: that sort of rot."

Harry closed his eyes. "Why are you here?" he asked for the third time.

Malfoy glanced at the sycamore that stood on the horizon of the slope. He looked at the cottage, and then at Harry. When he spoke, his voice was light. "Why are you?"

"This is where I live."

"Yes. But why?"

"I'm the one asking questions, Malfoy."

Malfoy made a quiet humming noise, looking thoughtful. His posture mimicked Harry's, leaning against the fence, standing about three feet away. His wrists dangled over onto Harry's side, and Malfoy had neatly folded back the cuffs of his shirt. It was a warm night. Malfoy had bony wrists.

At last, Malfoy stirred. "If you'll remember," he said quietly, and the crickets whispered too, "you defeated the Dark Lord. You saved us; me, Goyle, who knows how many others."

"So, what?" Harry said. "You've come to thank me?" His voice was thick with sarcasm. He was sick of people thanking him, frankly, as though he were a hero. They were only thinking of themselves, the comforting image they held of him. The fact that even Malfoy felt that way set him right on edge.

Malfoy looked startled, then sneered. "Of course not." He looked at Harry shrewdly, his eyes narrowed, lips pressed together. "What kind of life is this for the Boy Who Lived? Save everyone your quarter-life crisis angst, and Avada Kedavra yourself already. It would save everyone a great deal of worry; your friends needn't be concerned with giving you the time and space you supposedly need. You could just die." He seemed to think this was a grand idea.

Harry, of course, had already thought of that. Looking down at his hands, he asked quietly, "Is that what you came here for, then?"

"What? No." Malfoy looked mildly disgusted.

"Then why?"

"I've told you: Granger keeps storming about like a Hippogriff with its head cut off. Unbearable to work with, and it's your fault. Worse still, she's likely to make you the baby's godfather whether you're around or not, and you know what absent godfathers are like: they completely ruin a chap."

Harry looked at his hands again. "You can't expect me to believe you came here just because you're concerned about Hermione."

Malfoy smiled grimly. "Concerned for Granger? I'm concerned for myself, Potter. Hormones are frightening things. Combined with a suicidal best friend—well, I haven't a hope of getting any work done. And that's not even factoring in Weasel, who is 'worth something, and won't make a miserable father, ihonestly/i, Ron.'"

It was a fair imitation, and made Harry swallow hard. He could hear Hermione saying those words, and Ron refusing to believe them. He could see himself being there, taking Ron out for Butterbeers, reminiscing about old times—about Malfoy getting turned into a ferret, about the saves Ron had made in Quidditch, about all the times Ron had saved his life. And then Ron would remember he could do it after all, and everything would be fine.

Harry almost put a hand up to his scar. Of course it wasn't burning. The scar would never burn again—and yet, sometimes, he could swear that it still hurt. "Go away," he said, pressing his hands to his temples instead.

"I'll just convey your regrets to Granger, shall I?" Malfoy didn't move.

Harry's tone was weary. "She's a Weasley."

Malfoy looked scandalized. "What filthy things you do say."

"Seriously, Malfoy. Just go away." Harry felt his fists clench without him meaning them to. "No one will get hurt."

"Are you threatening me now?" Malfoy looked interested.

_Yes_! "No," Harry gritted out.

"Your eyes have gone rather strange."

Harry closed them quickly. They were hot; the rest of him felt cold. He felt as though he were losing blood. He looked at his hand; it was a tell-tale pale.

Harry kept his eyes closed and took deep breaths. He had been teaching himself to do this, but he could not think of pleasant things—not happy memories, anyway: his parents' smiles, holidays at the Burrow, one late night with Ron, Neville, and Seamus in the Gryffindor common room, a breakfast with Sirius, Hermione's arms around him, kissing Ginny Weasley.

Instead, Harry thought of the field. There was a smooth plain of grass. A hill rolled gently down. There was no road. Breezes came quite softly, ruffling the grass, and insects made steady, heavy droning noises. Then Draco Malfoy strode through the field, and the peace of it was marred.

"No need to throw a fit," Malfoy said.

Harry breathed out, and opened his eyes. "I'm not."

"Looked like you were." Malfoy's tone was lazy, unconcerned.

"What do you want?" Harry asked.

"I want you to visit Granger," Malfoy said promptly.

Harry looked away. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Harry didn't answer. After a while, Malfoy said, "It's because you're so special, isn't it."

Harry's hand ached to hex Malfoy into the next century, but he thought of the field, and unclenched his fist. "It's late," he said instead.

It was getting darker, and Malfoy's throat was a gleam in the shadows. "It is, rather; isn't it?" He spoke in a pleasant tone, but Harry got the impression he wasn't talking about the evening. "How long are you going to stay here in your grotto?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"No business." Malfoy paused delicately. "But I'm interested."

"Go away, Malfoy."

Malfoy had gray eyes. Usually they seemed colorless, like water: sometimes blue, sometimes stormy, always clear. Now in the evening light they looked silver, and seemed to glitter at Harry, hard like flint or steel. "It's a rather pitiful hovel," he said, nodding at the cottage that stood behind Harry's back.

"I said go away."

"You do realize that it's selfish holing yourself away down here," Malfoy went on, as though he hadn't heard.

"Selfish?" Harry was startled into asking.

"Oh, yes," Malfoy hissed. "You're just thinking of what you need, aren't you. Your friends try to give it to you, because you're Harry Potter, and you deserve anything you need, whatsoever you desire. And what of them? They don't deserve a thing, because they're not you."

There was a clamoring in Harry's ears, the monster coiled tight in his chest. Harry hated Malfoy in that moment, because every word he said was true. "Shut up," Harry said.

Malfoy smiled slightly. "No."

"What do you know about friends, anyway?" Harry sneered, because lobbing insults was an effective form of self-defense, however inelegant.

There was a line at the side of Malfoy's mouth which appeared when he smiled. Not quite a dimple—more of a crease, really—it deepened now. "More than you, it seems," he said, rather carelessly. "I'm in a position to help you particularly, Potter."

Harry snorted.

"I am," Malfoy insisted. "Most people like you. I don't at all. In that regard I have the advantage over . . . almost everyone, really."

"Here to help now, are you?" Harry mocked. "Thought you didn't want to thank me."

Straightening up, Malfoy slipped his hands into his pockets. He had a kind of easy posture, as though he belonged just there. The night was getting darker, but twilight lasted forever at Chimera Downs in this time of the summer. "Pansy Parkinson's grandmother is Czech," Malfoy said suddenly.

"Er," Harry said. "That's nice for her."

Malfoy ignored him. "A year ago, Pansy visited the Czech Republic."

"Did she now," Harry said blandly. "Fascinating."

"Quiet. I'm talking."

"Well then," said Harry.

"This is an origin story, Potter. Once a story ends, you go back to the beginning. You read everything taking into account the end, and the parts you thought you understood before take on new meaning. Pansy had come up to an ending, and that was why she went to the Czech Republic."

"That's nice," said Harry.

"I'm very clever with metaphor," Malfoy agreed, smiling smugly.

"And the point of your story is?"

Malfoy cocked his head to one side. "That Pansy is part Czech?" he suggested.

Harry had been part Voldemort. He didn't say anything.

For a while, there was only the sound of crickets, singing in the night. Malfoy was looking speculatively at the cottage. At last, his eyes slid over to Harry's. "She didn't find out anything. Pansy," he explained. "The places her grandmother had known were gone. No one knew her grandmother. Nobody remembered her. Everything was different."

"It happens," Harry said, without much sympathy.

"Yes," Malfoy said. "It does." He picked his jacket up off the rail, his fingers long and slender in the night. "So long, Harry Potter."

"Malfoy," Harry said.

Malfoy half turned back, his brow raised inquiringly.

Harry didn't know what had compelled him to call out. He didn't know what to say.

"Visit Granger," Malfoy said, then turned and walked away.

He moved in shadows, the moon catching his hair. Harry watched him until he became very small, and then he simply disappeared, like a flame blown out by the wind.

The sky was full of stars.

* * *

The third time Draco Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, Harry had had owls from Hermione, Ron, and Molly Weasley.

Hermione did not beg Harry to come back. Instead, she said, _I understand. We understand. We miss you, but we understand. When you come back, we'll still be here for you. You do what you need to do._ Between the lines Harry read, _Come back,_ and _We need you._

She asked how Harry was. iWe're worried/i and iyou're scaring us/i, read unwritten lines, and when she said that everything was alright, Harry wondered when she had learned to lie.

Harry folded up Hermione's letter and put it in the drawer.

The owls from Ron and Molly arrived in the next few days. Harry didn't read them, and put them in the drawer. Then he took out a sheet of parchment, and wrote, _Stop telling people where I am_, because it was easier than, _I'm fine_ or _I still think I might never be fine again_. It was easier than, _I'll be here for you_ or _I can't be there for you_. It was easier than _I love you_.

Harry didn't have an owl. He made the letter disappear with a tap of his wand.

When the wards broke that night, Harry thought about simply leaving. He could so easily run away. But through the window he saw the speck coming down the slope, and it was white. Harry went outside and waited at the gate. The speck resolved itself into a figure, and the figure was Malfoy.

Malfoy had always walked with a kind of saunter. At Hogwarts it had made him look ridiculous, and Harry had always thought it one of Malfoy's pretentions, just a put-on to make him look more sophisticated than he was. Watching him now, for the first time Harry realized that in school, Malfoy had been gawky, which may have accounted for at least a little of that ridiculousness.

Malfoy wasn't gawky now, and whether or not his saunter had been faked then, now it was just how he moved. He had grown into it, and there was a peculiar kind of grace in his gait, even if it still made him look like a cocky git.

"I didn't tell anyone where you are," Malfoy said, and waved Harry's note in front of his face. "How long do you think I've spent looking for you, versus how long Granger's spent?"

"What?" Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. "I had a look at her notes."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Should have known. You're a little spy."

Smirking, Malfoy said, "So says the bloke who couldn't stop following me around sixth year."

Harry frowned. "I knew you were up to something."

"I was always up to something." The smirk grew lazy, and Harry's frown deepened.

"What are you doing back here?"

Malfoy raised a brow, feigning surprise. He waved the letter again. "Why, Potter. I thought you wanted me."

"I wanted you to get away from me."

"Mm. That's why you go sending me special little messages."

"Give me that." Harry grabbed the letter. It said just what he had written on it. "This isn't special; it's for you to stop annoying me."

"It's special when you're not sending them to the other boys in class."

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I'm splendid. Thank you for asking."

"I just want to be left alone!"

Malfoy went a shade paler, but his indolent tone didn't change. "Careful. You'll break your little house."

Behind them, the cottage was shaking. Harry's eyes were hot again, his blood gone cold. He tried to picture grass, and couldn't. He tried to picture ice, and couldn't. All of it was rainstorms and fire, and the ground was shaking, the old sycamore in the hollow was shaking, the fence was shaking, and Draco Malfoy just stood there. His eyes were wide and his skin had gone pasty, but he stood there still.

Harry felt the clawing in his chest. The monster could claw all the way out, out his mouth, out his fingertips. It was dark and coiled tight, but it could slither out, the way Nagini had slithered out of Bathilda Bagshot; it would wind and coil and with claws, it could kill. He could kill; he could hurt; he was pain and death and—

"Leave," Harry whispered. "It's not safe for you here."

"You can quit the theatrics, Potter," Malfoy said. His arms were still resting on the gate, but his face was ashen, and his voice trembled.

"I can't always control it," Harry said. There was pleading in his voice.

Malfoy's eyes were huge and dilated, so that they looked black in his white face. His voice still trembled. "You're not special," Malfoy whispered. "You're just some bloke. You're just spoiled and indulged for being the Savior of the Wizarding World."

Harry shuddered, and the world stopped shaking.

Malfoy's face was very sharp. "Don't make me hit you over the head with a frying pan."

Harry breathed and breathed and breathed, and at last the world seemed to tilt upright. Blood was coming back to his fingers, his hands. His head was pounding, his stomach roiling, but the world around him was still. It felt like his scar hurt again, even though he knew it didn't.

Malfoy stood there, slender and tall, wrists dangling over the gate, collar open to the night air.

Swallowing, Harry closed his eyes. "A frying pan?" he asked at last.

"I saw it in a film." Malfoy sniffed.

Harry blinked. "A film?"

"Yes, a film; you know, Muggle moving pictures. _Roger Rabbit_, as it happens. Potter, are you feeling quite well."

Harry frowned. He was feeling much better. "But you can't watch _Roger Rabbit_."

"It's a PG, for goodness sake. Why on earth not?"

"But you're a Malfoy. You don't watch _Rodger Rabbit_."

Malfoy stared at him. Color was slowly coming back to his face, a healthy pink that was nothing like that ghastly white, and his eyes were becoming normal size—and narrowing. "I feel sorry for you," he said finally, his voice tight. "Very sorry. I feel sorry that your emotional growth is so stunted that you're stuck at the age of seventeen, unable to learn or accept anything new, and isorry/i that now all those Muggles and Ministers and Aurors a-and Dumbledores—" here his voice stumbled a little—"finally stopped manipulating you, you feel like you have to let loose and go crazy, that you can do anything you want, that you should be able to, that defeating the Dark Lord and saving us all and years of being used and—and—"

Malfoy stopped suddenly, and shoved his fists in his pockets. "I'm sorry for you," he said again. "I really am. And I—but it doesn't matter, really. You are still a human being, Harry Potter, no matter what you've done. No matter all the things that've happened to you that you think make you special—whether you think it makes you better than us or worse than us. You are still a man and you still have to act like one." He turned away a little. "Oh yeah. And you're still a specky git with bad hair." Malfoy turned around to go away.

"Don't," Harry said.

Malfoy paused, the line of his thin shoulders stiff. When Harry didn't say any more, he slowly turned around. "Afraid you'll miss me, Potter?" he sneered.

Harry opened his mouth, and then realized he didn't know why he had called Malfoy back. "About Hermione," he said finally.

"Yes?" Malfoy looked impatient.

"I'm not ready."

"Bollocks you're not ready," Malfoy said immediately. "You're just the kind of 'not ready' you'll always be if you don't do something." Malfoy came back, directly on the other side of the gate from Harry. He leaned in, his voice swift and low. "Don't you think I know?"

"You don't know anything about it."

Malfoy drew himself up. "You're the one who doesn't know anything." Harry expected Malfoy's voice to be cold, but it wasn't. "You think you're falling apart. You think you'll break apart. Then you'll get swept along the street, so many bits of debris, just rubbish in a bin. You think you might be nothing, and you just might let it happen. Let me tell you something, Potter. It won't happen. You'll stay together, not because you're strong, but because you can't fall apart. You'll wake up every morning, and you'll still be there. You're still something and you're someone, and it goes on and on and on."

"I'm not afraid of being nothing." Harry frowned. "I'm afraid of being everything."

The easy air, the not-cold tone, fell away. "You're afraid of yourself!" Malfoy exploded.

"Yes!" Harry shouted back.

Malfoy looked badly startled. "Oh."

Harry relaxed a little. Talking to Malfoy was easier than talking to Ron or Hermione would be, easier than anyone else would be. Malfoy didn't understand what was wrong. Malfoy didn't want to understand what was wrong, and that was the best part, because it meant didn't have to talk about it. Harry didn't have to think about it, and Malfoy wouldn't be concerned or pitying or understanding. Malfoy would just talk at him and Harry would talk back, and the thought of being able to do that made the monster curl quietly inside him, settling as if to go to sleep.

"Oh," Malfoy said again. He gave a twisted smile. "Well, they say admitting you have a problem is the first step."

"To what?" Harry said, with some suspicion.

"To pulling yourself together. Doing something. To not wallowing around feeling sorry for yourself making all your friends miserable."

"Friends?" Harry's suspicion remained.

Malfoy didn't move for a moment. Then he stirred. "Not me, of course. I'm happy as a clam. Couldn't care less how miserable you are."

Harry realized his suspicions regarding Draco Malfoy were not going to subside any time soon. "Hmm," was all he said, and Malfoy looked badly startled again.

"No, really," Malfoy said anxiously.

"If you're so happy, why do you keep coming here?"

"You mean this den of dreary depression?" Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I can't imagine why."

"Really," Harry said. "Why waste your time?"

"I did tell you about my work situation, right?"

"It's an awful lot of effort to here, just because you're being harangued by your boss."

Malfoy looked at him incredulously. "Do you remember getting harangued by Granger? Because if you do, you'll remember that no length is too great."

Talking like this, conversing just as if he were an actual human being, made Harry think he could almost do it. He still didn't have the monster under control as much as he would like, but in these three evenings with Malfoy, Harry felt he'd come farther than he'd been in the last six months. Maybe Malfoy was right, maybe he needed to move on. He was never going to be ready if he didn't try. "Alright," Harry said.

Malfoy suddenly looked as suspicious as Harry had felt earlier. "Alright, what?"

"I'll go see Hermione. Then will you be happy?"

Both Malfoy's brows slowly rose, but he said only, "I told you I'm already happy."

"Whatever, Malfoy," Harry said, turning to go back to the cottage.

"Don't make false promises," Malfoy called out to him.

* * *

The next day, Harry took out Ron and Hermione's letters, and tried to write out a reply.

He couldn't stop thinking about what had happened with Malfoy—the shaking house, the grounds, the monster that clawed up inside him, the way he couldn't seem to make it stop. If all of that could happen with someone he was indifferent to, it could be worse with people he really cared for. He could still hurt them.

Harry was trying to get better. He didn't want to be wild and destructive, out of control, but he didn't want to be a hermit, either. What he wanted to be was ready. He wanted to have time enough and space to control his power, whatever Voldemort had done to him, or he had done to himself. He wanted to deal with torture he had seen, those who had died, crimes he had helped commit. He wanted to process all the things he'd never been able to because he'd been too busy saving the world, and after that, too busy forgetting.

Harry wanted to take his losses—of friends, of battles, of self and heart and freedom—take them one by one and look at them, understand them, and deal with them. Then he wanted to put them in a deep dark place inside himself where they could never hurt anyone, where they could never scratch out from his chest and demand some kind of vengeance, recompense, life or light.

When he had wanted to leave, Ron and Hermione had been torn between making him stay, and giving him the time and space he needed. They knew what he had been through. They knew that as bad as things had gotten for them, Harry was the one who had walked into that forest alone. They understood that they couldn't understand what had happened to him, and they understood that better than everyone else, and that was why they had let him go.

They were all like that—Harry's friends, everyone he loved, so sad and understanding and willing to help, even after all Harry had done. Even Dean Thomas thought that Harry probably couldn't help the way he'd been with Ginny; Dean had just wished Harry would be that way with someone else.

Then there was the rest of the world. The rest of the world fell into two categories: those who were in awe of Harry Potter, and those who feared him. He had, after all, saved the world. He was a hero, wasn't he? But he had also Splinched three foreign dignitaries, tamed a nesting dragon, fought an army of Inferi, and killed Dolores Umbridge by accident. He was terrifying, and amazing, and no one could seem to decide which was prevalent.

When Harry Potter tried to tell anyone whom he did not already know, "I'm just a man," they never seemed to believe him.

This was the way in which Malfoy was different.

If Harry told Ron and Hermione he wasn't ready, they would understand. They shouldn't, though. They should have given up on him by now; they should have given up on him by the time he quit the Aurors. Even then he had begun to be too wild, too careless. But Ron and Hermione would forgive him anything he did, because they loved him.

Harry's hand closed on the parchment lying blank before him, and crumpled it into rubbish.

* * *

The next day, Harry visited Ron and Hermione.

The first time was difficult. They were so understanding, and he didn't deserve it; people should earn things like love and trust, not be granted them. Harry was careful not to get angry, though. Things would go badly if he got angry. Hermione and Ron, in turn, could tell that he was being careful, and became even more understanding. Harry focused on the field.

There was a plain of grass, gently ruffled by a breeze. There was no road, and Draco Malfoy walked down the slope. Behind him flared up gold.

Hermione was talking about work and drafting legislation, something about Pygmy Puffs and werewolf rights. If she had been talking about the baby or Ron or the millions of things Harry had missed in the past six months, Harry didn't think he could have stood it. Instead she talked and talked, so Harry didn't have to. She had a pleasant voice. He had always liked it.

Ron kept plying him with Butterbeer, grinning like a madman.

When he was leaving, Hermione said, "Can we visit you at Chimera Downs?"

Harry's chest grew tight. "I . . ." he began.

"That's alright," Hermione said smoothly. She did not sound kind; she sounded like business. It sounded so good, Harry tried to get his breath back. "Come and see us every Thursday," Hermione suggested instead.

Harry breathed out. "I don't know if . . ."

"It can be quite regular," Hermione said, in that same businesslike tone. "Every Thursday at seven. You can come by Floo. We can eat and talk for one hour, and then you can go home."

"If you want," Ron added.

"Okay," Harry said. They were making it so easy by making it so very hard to say no.

"Missed you, mate," Ron said, and clapped him on the back.

Harry thought that he could do this.

* * *

The next evening, Malfoy came strolling down the slope just at twilight. His legs looked long long long in the green grass, and Harry knew the way grasshoppers sometimes jumped up and snapped thighs. Saturn was in the sky.

When he got closer, Harry could tell that Malfoy had showered recently. His hair looked wet. It was darker, and curled under the ears.

"Well, you did it."

Harry just looked at him. "How do you know?"

Malfoy put his nose in the air. "As if I can't read Granger like a book."

"I guess you like her."

"Who, me?" Malfoy looked mildly perturbed. "Anyone can read Granger, Potter. She lights up like a Lumos whenever someone comes through for her. So few people do. She's surrounded by incompetence."

"You think she deserves better."

"Of course she deserves better!" Malfoy exclaimed, ruffled.

"See what I mean?" A dry smile tugged at Harry's mouth.

"I admire intelligence," Malfoy said irritably. "I don't like seeing it put to waste."

"Thanks."

Malfoy frowned. "I didn't say anything about your own intelligence. Granger's cleverness is completely wasted on—"

Somehow while Harry had been slowly going mad, Malfoy had forgotten how to be a mindless bigoted prat. "I meant thanks for suggesting I visit."

Malfoy opened his mouth. Then he closed it again, and swallowed. "Oh," he said, scowling.

"What you said about . . . about being ready," Harry said. "That helped."

"I'm a very helpful person."

Harry was watching him. Malfoy had brightened considerably. "That stuff you said about being nothing—"

"—was all wisdom I've garnered in my old age," Malfoy said quickly. "I have become sage-like. Ask me anything. I'm thinking about growing a beard."

Harry blinked. "A beard?"

Malfoy tilted his head. "Why not?"

"It would be . . ." Harry frowned, ". . . wispy."

Drawing himself up, Malfoy said, "My beard would not be wispy."

Harry realized they were talking about Malfoy's beard. He was okay with that, he thought.

When Harry thought of the field, with the waving grass and the sycamore on the horizon, Malfoy strolling down the rise. Somehow that was alright; Harry wondered why. Ginny never could be in that field, or Ron or Hermione. People he had loved, friends, enemies, strangers, could never be in that field.

Harry had disliked Malfoy intensely, had mistrusted him, yet now he felt no animosity. He felt no friendship either, but the result was not indifference. Now when he thought of Malfoy, he felt, more than anything, a sense of resolution. Perhaps that was something you could feel only towards someone you had once considered an enemy. It felt like peace.

"It would be wispy," Harry said, and smirked.

Malfoy's shoulders were the stiff little line they became when he was cross. "I'll have you know that my family has a great tradition of sporting fine facial hair."

"Come in."

"No, I—what?"

"I asked you to come inside."

Malfoy looked startled. His shoulders hunched. "Why?"

"I might want to cut you up into little pieces and use you for dark rituals," Harry suggested.

Malfoy darted a nervous glance over Harry's shoulder at the cottage. "Not funny."

"We can play Exploding Snap."

"Because you're _twelve_?"

Harry tried to think of something else normal people did. "We can have a drinks."

"Potter," Malfoy started, and then stopped, seeming to steel himself. "I . . . yes. Alright." He looked defiant. "Fine. Let's go in and have a drink."

Harry brushed down the wards, and opened the gate.

Still looking slightly pale and distinctly ruffled, Malfoy stepped through the gate, then followed Harry down the garden path to the cottage. Inside, Harry got him a glass of Knotgrass Mead and sat down on the big chair.

Malfoy stood looking around, about as uncomfortable as Harry had ever seen him. But Harry had seen him worse than uncomfortable, had seen him cowering and crying, and Harry found this strangely soothing.

"You can sit down," Harry told him, "if you want."

"Your politeness, as always, astonishes me." Malfoy looked around, his lip curling. "How long do you plan to stay here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can't always be a hermit. Even one who visits people."

Harry wanted to touch his scar, and stopped himself. "Why not?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't pretend you don't love being famous."

Harry blinked. "Do people who love being famous usually do everything they can not to be found?"

"Whatever. No doubt you just did it for the attention."

Harry smiled. "Where should I be living instead?"

Malfoy shrugged. "How should I know? Get a flat."

"A flat?"

"People live in them, Potter. You find them in towns, where there are _other people_."

Harry's mouth twitched.

"Then, once you've got somewhere respectable, you find yourself an occupation."

"An occupation?"

"Yes," Malfoy said, irritably. "Are you going to repeat everything I say?"

"What do you do?"

Malfoy looked surprised, then annoyed again. "I told you. I work for Granger. Don't you know what she does?"

"Er," said Harry. "She drafts legislation."

"Merlin." For a moment Malfoy looked very put-upon, then he waved his hand dismissively. "For your information, your erstwhile girlfriend is head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."

"I knew that, actually." Harry ignored the 'girlfriend' jibe.

"Good on you. Can you spell her name?"

"Even that," Harry said, and grinned unabashedly.

"Lord save us." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I liaise with the International Court of Magical Creature Law, specifically."

"How did you get into that?"

"By means of a very long story that wouldn't interest you," Malfoy said, pursing his lips. He had relaxed somewhat, which meant leaning back and crossing his legs, ankle to his knee. He had bony ankles, too.

Pulling his eyes away from Malfoy's socks, Harry said, "Try me."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him. "I put in an application. I was qualified so they accepted me. One day I was reading through a bill and noticed that it violated international law. I pointed it out to Granger. She pushed it and got promoted. I did too."

"That's not a long story," Harry pointed out.

"I shortened it for your tiny brain."

"Come off it, Malfoy."

Malfoy gestured wildly. "What do you want me to say? You want to hear how I was a clerk shut up in a cupboard and ignored for two years, that I worked my fingers to the bone just to find something that would make someone notice me? Do you want to hear how I groveled to Granger? Do you want to hear about how if she hadn't sponsored me, no one would have given a toss for a former Death Eater?" The color was high in Malfoy's face. His eyes were bright.

"No." Harry raised his brows. "I'm just making conversation."

Malfoy gave an ugly little laugh. "Excellent. Take the sordid details of my life and make them into idle small talk, how exquisitely well-mannered."

"I'm not making fun of you."

"Really?" Malfoy said sarcastically. "Then what are you trying to do?"

Harry resisted the urge to touch his scar, and looked away instead. "Be human."

"I—oh." Malfoy had narrow, slender shoulders, but Harry was used to the way that he tried to square them up, setting them as though he could make himself bigger. Now they sagged; Malfoy deflated, and suddenly he looked tired.

"Well," Malfoy began again, and visibly recouped. Up the shoulders came, square they set, so much like a soldier gathering his courage that Malfoy somehow looked brittle. He gave a small tight smile that held no mirth at all and was obviously forced. "I see. That's very . . . valiant of you. I rather expected you to expend such efforts on Granger and Weasel and such. You'll pardon me if—if—" He seemed to grope for words.

"I guess us having a normal conversation isn't very normal."

"Just so. That's it exactly. You've hit the nail on the—" Seeming to realize he was babbling, Malfoy stopped himself by swallowing. "I didn't come here to be friends," he said suddenly.

"Huh?"

"It wasn't an attempt to begin again, with you." Malfoy waved a vague hand. "What I said about beginnings, it wasn't because I once—" Malfoy stopped himself again. "What's done is done. We were never friends, Potter."

Harry was scowling. "You mean that story about Parkinson and the Czech Republic?"

"Oh good," Malfoy said. "You were listening. I came because I thought I could do something right for once. Granger was in a strop and you were sulking in a corner, and everyone still talks about you as though you're the second coming of Merlin, except I know that you're not. I'm the only one who knows, and I thought that if someone talked to you as though you were a human being you might—maybe you could act like one."

Harry gritted his teeth and looked away. "I'm trying."

"Yes," Malfoy said, still sounding agitated. "I just didn't think you would try to act like a human being to me."

Harry barked a laugh. "Is that all?"

Malfoy bristled. "Is what all?"

"Malfoy. You're not special either, you know."

Malfoy looked shocked. Then he masked his expression, an odd sort of thing to see, just like the setting of his shoulders. When he spoke, however, he sounded merely annoyed. "I'm special, Potter. I'm a special unique snowflake. You will note that I, however, am not the one hermiting in a hovel as though my specialness somehow exonerates me from living life."

"Alright," Harry said, and smirked again.

Disconcerted, Malfoy moved away and pretended to look at the bookshelves. He coughed politely, and eventually asked, "How do you occupy your time here, anyway?" His voice was a note less confident than usual.

"Small talk?" Harry asked.

"We can fling insults if you'd rather," Malfoy snapped.

"No, that's okay," Harry said, and smiled again. Malfoy looked distinctly uncomfortable, staying rather close to the bookshelves, as though they might protect him. "I've done a lot of reading."

Malfoy looked as though he were fighting a smart remark. Instead he only said, "You never struck me as a bookish type."

"It's dead boring," Harry agreed. "I've also been trying to get better at potions brewing, and wandless casting. That sort of thing."

"You cheated in sixth year," Malfoy said. "I heard about it."

"You cheated all the time," Harry pointed out mildly.

"I did, rather," Malfoy said smugly. He seemed pleased Harry had noticed.

"See," Harry said. "This isn't so bad."

Malfoy looked like he was warring with himself again. At last, with effort, he managed, "I don't suppose it is." A wrinkle appeared in his forehead when he frowned thoughtfully, which he was doing now. His hands were in his pockets, making him look at ease despite the frown, and his shoulders sloped naturally.

Malfoy was the first person ever to be in the cottage besides himself, Harry realized suddenly. Harry had built the cottage, built it all himself with magic. The terrifying part was that it had not been hard. But here was Malfoy with his hands in his pockets, reading the titles of books and frowning in that thoughtful way. He could almost be a normal person, and Harry could almost be normal too here with him, as though they merely were acquaintances having a normal conversation. It was easier than with Ron and Hermione. It was easier than anything.

"What do I do after I get a job?" Harry asked suddenly.

"Hmm?" Malfoy murmured, and turned toward him again.

"You said I have to get a flat, then a job. After that?"

Malfoy's eyes rounded in surprise, and then the mask returned. "Everyone knows that one," he said lightly, turning back to the books. "Marry the girl of your dreams, have three children, name them after your father or your father's father or better yet, your great-uncle. Buy a house and send the squealing brats to Hogwarts, and live happily ever after."

"Oh," said Harry.

"Cheer up," Malfoy said, smirking slowly. "Maybe for your midlife crisis you can buy a fancy new broom."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"Hmm?"

"Living happily ever after?"

Malfoy's gaze drifted down. His eyelashes looked silver in this light. "Naturally," he murmured. "That's how the story ends, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Harry told him honestly.

"Mmm," Malfoy said again, seeming to think that low drawled hum as good as words. "It's what we're all supposed to be doing, anyway," he said after a time. "With the Dark Lord gone, there's nothing to stand in our way; isn't that so? We should all be living happily ever after." His tone was light and ironic; he had a strange smile playing about one side of his mouth that suggested amusement, but not particularly happiness.

"Are you happy?" Harry surprised himself by asking.

Malfoy turned away again. "I've told you. I'm perfectly content."

Harry looked at Malfoy's back, the slim figure that held itself so tall, those shoulders, the minute tightness that spoke of Malfoy squaring up again. "So you said," Harry agreed.

"I had better go," Malfoy said, turning around again.

"Alright." Harry could not read his expression. He followed Malfoy to the door, where Malfoy paused.

"Thank you, Potter." Malfoy sounded more stilted than ever. "This has been . . ."

"Nice?" Harry suggested.

The line appeared beside Malfoy's mouth, the precursor to the smile, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "I do hope you won't get carried away."

Harry smiled. "We could do it again."

The line deepened. "See what I mean."

"Gosh, Malfoy. No need to sound so enthusiastic."

A smile was definitely playing at Malfoy's lips. "Whatever do you mean? I'm near to giddy."

"See you," said Harry.

"You should be so lucky," said Malfoy, and went out into the night.

Harry spent the next Thursday with Ron and Hermione, and the next, and the next.

Hermione was helping him institute routines. The appointments she helped him arrange generally only lasted a short period of time, but he had to do them regularly: things like going with her to the Tesco just by her and Ron's flat, things like going out to Diagon Alley for the first time since he'd found Chimera Downs. Somehow, she seemed to understand how much everything exhausted him, how much control it took. With her help, he knew that he could get away as soon as he felt frayed; he also knew he had to come back.

Hermione was very good at helping him to do normal things, but it was Ron who was better at helping him to be normal. They went out for drinks once, then again.

The next time, Ron invited Neville. The time after that it was George. Ron kept inviting people. At first, Harry thought maybe Ron didn't realize how difficult it was for him to be around people, even those he cared about—especially those he cared about—but Ron never invited more than one person at a time. And he was always there.

Harry thought he helped Ron, too, even if he wasn't sure how. They talked about the times Ron had saved him, and the Quidditch matches he'd helped win, and that time Malfoy was a ferret, and it made things better.

"I can't always . . ." Ron pressed his lips together, his hands clenched futilely. "Sometimes I feel like I can't just do anything right. Like I just have to get away."

Things were going so well that Harry was able to lift a slow brow and say, "I know the feeling."

Ron laughed a little. "Sorry."

Harry looked down. "Don't be."

"I fucked it up," Ron said. "I still think of it, sometimes. The way I ran from you and Hermione, and you were both alone."

"You pulled me out of a freezing lake," Harry pointed out.

"But I can't always . . . . Look. You're not in a freezing lake."

Harry blinked, not because he needed to. Sometimes he thought he needed to less and less, when his eyes went hot this way. He did it to cool down. He did it because he knew it was creepy when he didn't. "I don't need saving," he said, keeping his voice very steady.

Ron scowled, took a sip of his mead, and said, "Whatever it is, mate. I'm going to be there. It's just Hermione, she's so . . . The thing is, Hermione's perfect. She actually really is. What am I supposed to do with that?"

They were over a little hurdle, and Harry allowed himself a very dry half smile. "You're not so bad."

Ron laughed. "Thanks." He took another swig, and then looked horrified. "But a father? Me?"

It was going to be alright, Harry realized. It was really going to be alright, because he could do this now.


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: This story touches on mental disorders, and deals with mental health.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

A couple of nights a week, Malfoy came to Chimera Downs.

He came around the same time, never on a Thursday. The light at first was always gold, and then it changed to pink. Color began to turn at last in the single sycamore on the rise, and Draco Malfoy kept on coming down.

When he came the grass and weeds swayed around his legs and moved like waves in a good breeze: Malfoy in the midst of sea. Malfoy came in the way of ships to a deserted island. They came rich; they came easy. They never came to save anyone; they just appeared there, as if in passing, passing by. A castaway had always just learned to survive at terrible cost by the time he first saw a sail.

Several days after the first time Malfoy came inside the cottage for drinks, it showered lightly in the mid-afternoon. That night, Malfoy came again; the grass was wet as though with dew, and the stalks brushed and broke by Malfoy as he strode. When he got to the gate, the knees of his trousers were marked with grass and water, and he smelled like rain. Crickets sang in the coming night.

At the fence, he put a hand on the gate, not as though to open it, but as though he'd walked the whole way because this was the most comfortable place in the world to lean. He looked up at the cottage thoughtfully, until Harry opened the door and stepped outside.

"Want to come in?" he asked Malfoy. The light in the cottage was yellow, and spilled in a square out into twilight.

"I was thinking about it," said Malfoy, and didn't move. His hand still was languid over the gate.

"What were you thinking?" Harry asked.

"Why I should bother, really." Malfoy's voice was lazy, light.

"You're already here," Harry pointed out.

"No. I've only just come to the gate."

"Why stop there?" Harry asked.

Malfoy lifted the latch and pushed open the gate in a fluid movement, then came up the path to the cottage.

Everything was easier, because it was Malfoy, but it was still difficult enough. Harry tried to rack his brain for the things that normal people did. Once Malfoy was in the living room again, he asked, "How are you?"

Malfoy gave him the strangest look, as though the question were in a foreign language, or else too strange to contemplate. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Then, in a stilted voice, "Never better. And yourself?"

"Fine," said Harry. Because it was too quiet, he added, "I've seen Ron and Hermione again."

Malfoy only nodded.

Harry tried to think of something else to say but Malfoy saved him. "I knew you had," he said suddenly, "Granger being a book, you know. Sinclair owes you his life, I think."

Harry almost winced, because people were always owing him their lives, except when he took them away, like Dolores Umbridge. But Malfoy winced instead, as if realizing what he'd said, and it made Harry feel better that Malfoy thought Harry's head was already too big. "Er," Harry said instead. "Who's Sinclair?"

"Granger's secretary. He's not cut out for the job, I'm afraid. A very sensitive bloke. But he'll never relinquish the position—he thinks it give him an edge on establishing the rights of Pygmy Puffs."

Harry frowned. "Pygmy Puffs?"

"Oh yes," Malfoy said, nodding. "He wants Puffs to be considered in the category of Being—as opposed to Beast, naturally. He thinks he's got Granger's ear."

"Why would anyone want to think Pygmy Puffs are—"

"'They're an honest and noble race!'" exclaimed Malfoy, in a sing-song, passionate voice, and then switched to his impression of Hermione. "'Honestly, they've the brains of peas. Now, house-elves on the other hand. Oppression! Slavery! Rights! Liberty! Wooly hats! Hop to it!' And then Sinclair launches into the oppression of Pygmy Puffs, which is really very elegant and passionate, only it aggravates Granger no end."

Harry found himself smiling. "The oppression of Pygmy Puffs, really?"

"As you know, Puffs were rather fierce in the wild." Malfoy's eyes widened as he saw that in fact, Harry had not known, and then he rolled his eyes. "Well they were," he told him, and launched into a story about the marauding gangs of Puffs that lived in meadows in the eighteenth century, until someone had the bright idea of breeding them. "They started quite a racket."

"Are you talking about black market Pygmy Puffs?" A new world was opening up to Harry.

Malfoy frowned. "Sort of. I meant they were their own racket, rather. Puffs are a tough bunch, very tooth and nail. Families stay quite closely knit together. Like gangs. Or . . . oh—" he waved a hand, "the mafia. So there was selling and trading among themselves, and certain forms of slavery."

"Puff slavery."

"Oh yes," Malfoy said, still frowning. "Really, you would know all of this had our Care of Magical Creatures professor been in any way half decent."

There was a silence. Harry waited to be angry; he waited to feel the clawing rise up in his chest. But there was nothing, waiting there, and Harry realized this—this petty schoolboy feud over Care of Magical Creatures and defending Hagrid and Hippogriffs against Malfoy—this was over. Harry didn't have to worry about it any more, and there was nothing Malfoy could do. It didn't matter any more.

So all that Harry said was, "Hagrid is my friend," and he said it looking right at Malfoy, to see what Malfoy would say.

Malfoy looked away. "Yes," he said finally. "I liked the subject."

"What?"

"I liked the subject: care for magical creatures."

"But you didn't like Hagrid."

Malfoy fidgeted. "I wanted more out of it. I'm not picking a fight. But you're not going to tell me you liked the Flobberworms portion of the class."

Harry's mouth curled. "No. I'm not."

There was a pause. "Puffs were as violent as unicorns, really, until it was all bred out of them," Malfoy eventually said.

"You're going to try to tell me unicorns are violent?"

"Seriously, Potter, do you know anything about magical creatures?" Malfoy said, sounding somewhat delighted, and proceeded to explain in detail the bloodlust of the unicorn.

In this way, Malfoy spoke of magical creatures, his coworkers, current events in the wizarding world, impressions of everyone around him, and Harry spoke carefully of slowly getting about in the world. It was as though they had never been anything other than acquaintances. They spoke of amusing things, topical things, stories that didn't have to do with anything. They spoke of the past, but never of disputes then, never their hatred of each other. They never spoke of the war.

Malfoy wasn't seeking to heal Harry, and that's what made Harry so comfortable those nights, when the wards opened at Chimera Downs, and Draco Malfoy strolled down the rise.

Perhaps that was why Harry asked him what he did, one night several weeks later. Leaves were bleeding off the sycamore, Gryffindor red and gold, and the stars had started to come out by the time Malfoy was making his way down the slope. For a while, Saturn hovered low, a notch of bright orange light carved out of the western sky. Time seemed to stretch out forever, with Draco Malfoy coming down.

They were in the cottage, and Malfoy had had rather too much daisy wine, which he professed not to like. There were spots of pink on his cheekbones. It was because Malfoy was talking about werewolf negotiations that Harry thought of it, even though the werewolf of which Malfoy was speaking was a fetching witch who wore a collar all the time.

"It makes you wonder whether she has a lead," Malfoy was saying. He seemed very interested in the prospect of her having a lead, the witch with the long black nails who wore black lipstick and a fork wrapped around her wrist for a bracelet, and sharp spikes on the black leather collar. Malfoy talked about those spikes, about the way she growled, about her wild hair—upon which he waxed most eloquent, more damning evidence than ever that he carried a bit of a torch for Hermione.

"And there's a commune," Malfoy was saying, "where they all live together. Werewolves are very tightly bonded, you know. A pack sticks together like a family. Or an orgy. You can only imagine what the nights are like. They're always wearing mesh shirts." Malfoy sounded wistful, as though he wanted to go to orgy bonding rituals wearing a mesh shirt.

That was what did it somehow, most inappropriately and oddly: Malfoy being wistful about mesh. "Would you come with me to visit Teddy?" Harry said abruptly, without knowing it was going to come out of his mouth.

"I—what?"

"Teddy," Harry said again. "He's Remus Lupin's son."

"I . . . know that."

"And Nymphadora Tonks." Harry still wasn't sure why he was saying it, except that Malfoy made things easier, and he wanted things to be easier. "She was your cousin."

"I know," said Malfoy again, his voice blank.

"I need to visit him," Harry explained. "What you said about godfathers—well, I need to visit him. But I can't," he added.

Malfoy looked frozen. "What's that got to do with me?"

"Andromeda's your aunt," Harry said.

Malfoy seemed to take a moment finding his voice. "We haven't—my family hasn't spoken to her since . . . I don't know her."

"I don't know him," said Harry.

"Potter." Malfoy frowned in distaste, as though the name tasted bad. "Why are you—why are you asking me?"

"Because you—" Harry stopped because he couldn't think of anything to say, and Malfoy was staring at him like he was off his head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. It was a stupid—"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I'll go with you," Malfoy said very quickly, all in a rush.

Harry stopped. "Really?"

"Yes," Malfoy repeated irritably. "I said I would, didn't I? Well?" he demanded, after a moment. "Are you really going to?"

"Yes," Harry said slowly. "Are you really coming with me?"

"Yes," Malfoy said, and looked away.

Harry looked at the curve of his neck, and realized it really would be easier. Hermione or Ron might have gone with him, but they would be there as Harry's support. They would be encouraging him the whole time, trying to get him to make conversation with Andromeda, or with Teddy. Malfoy would have a more difficult time of it than Harry, probably, and that made it so much easier.

"Thank you," said Harry.

"Don't mention it, Potter." Malfoy looked back and his voice was suddenly very crisp. "If the . . . child has lycanthropy, I am in an expert position to deal with it. I will teach the child to have black nails, and wear forks about his wrist."

"Er," said Harry. "Are you sure Andromeda will approve?"

"She is a grandmother. Don't you know grandmothers approve of everything?"

"They do?"

Malfoy waved a hand. "Of course. My grandmother Hazel allowed me to operate difficult Muggle machinery once. Completely to the dismay of my parents, I might add—it was very dangerous."

* * *

The very dangerous Muggle machinery turned out to be a hand mixer. Malfoy told Harry this several days later as they met at the end of the lane to walk to Andromeda's together.

"What did you make with the hand mixer?" Harry asked, puzzled.

Malfoy beamed with pride. "It's for killing weeds," he explained. "Didn't you know?"

"No," Harry told him.

"Just leave all the difficult Muggle gadgetry to me," Malfoy informed him airily. "I'm going to impress Andromeda with my vast array of knowledge."

"About hand mixers?" Harry wanted to know.

"Yes," Malfoy said. "She will be charmed that I know about her husband's culture. He was a Muggle, didn't you know? "

"I seem to remember hearing that," Harry said, and rolled his eyes. Despite Malfoy's hesitation when Harry had first invited him, he now seemed eager for the meeting. He was all bright confidence, rather to the point of agitation. He kept speaking of how no doubt his wit would win over Andromeda, almost as though he were trying to convince himself. Harry found his incessant babble reaassuring.

"About you—er, wooing Andromeda," Harry began, Malfoy's words, not his.

Malfoy looked affronted. "I'm very charming."

Harry looked at him doubtfully. "I'm sure you are. It's just . . . I've never got on that well with her. Even before I . . ."

"Went crazy?"

Harry glared. "Yeah. I mean, we don't argue. And she's wonderful to Teddy. She's just—you know, a little . . . cold."

"She's going to like me, Potter." Malfoy drew himself up.

Harry was doubtful again. "Oh. Will she?"

"Yes. You see, I have a plan. A brilliant plan of masterful cunning."

"Um," said Harry. "Okay."

Malfoy's brilliant plan of masterful cunning turned out to be a plan to appear completely irresistible to anyone nearby him, except for Harry who knew it was just Malfoy and so was puzzled by its effectiveness.

Teddy was six now, and Harry had no idea what to do with a six-year-old, but Malfoy's idea seemed to be that you talked to six-year-olds as though they were normal people, which they obviously weren't. Malfoy was very serious with Teddy, nodding thoughtfully at what Teddy said. Harry found out later that most of what Teddy said was about spaceships. Malfoy made him all sorts of whimsical promises he could never keep, except that when Harry told Malfoy this Malfoy looked him and said, "I am perfectly fit for spaceflight, thank you."

And then there was Andromeda, whom Malfoy complimented at every turn. He told her she had a lovely house, and a lovely grandson, and wasn't it so unfortunate how Harry Potter was a crazy person, but you never knew with godfathers did you, and anyway Harry wasn't being crazy now, wasn't it nice.

"I wanted to bring him before," Malfoy explained very earnestly, "but I had to make sure he wasn't—you know—dangerous." His voice lowered dramatically. "One has to think of the children, doesn't one."

"He didn't bring me here," Harry said, scowling.

"I don't have him fully trained yet," Malfoy told Andromeda apologetically.

"Teddy has been missing you," Andromeda told Harry, her tone polite.

Harry was fairly certain Teddy didn't remember who he was. "I had to go away," Harry explained. "But I came back."

"Short sentences help keep him in control," Malfoy said helpfully.

Andromeda smiled faintly.

"But are you comfortable?" Malfoy said. "Perhaps you would like to take a turn about the room."

"I'm fine," said Andromeda, because this was the fifth time Malfoy had asked, but she was still smiling faintly.

"Have a chocolate," said Malfoy, and that was the seventh time. He had brought the chocolates, no doubt as part of his cunning plan of masterfulness, or whatever. No doubt also part of the plan was to not tell Harry he was bringing Andromeda chocolates in order to make Harry look bad because he hadn't brought anything.

"And I'm not dangerous," Harry added, annoyed, because Andromeda actually was taking another chocolate, and the smile was growing deeper. Her smile was actually a little bit like Malfoy's, with the line just on one side.

At Harry's words, Andromeda raised her brows. "I'm glad to hear that, Harry," she said in the calm, placid way she always addressed Harry.

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it, realizing what he had said. No doubt Malfoy had tricked him into saying it, but—he wasn't dangerous.

Slowly, Harry looked at Teddy, who was playing with the chocolate frog Malfoy had also brought. Harry looked at him and thought of Remus, thought of Tonks. Harry looked and felt loss, and a fierce upswell of protectiveness and pain: Teddy's parents killed in battle, this child left alone, the crying under the chair, the mist of King's Cross.

The grass stood tall in the field, waved in a slight breeze. A sycamore stood on the rise, the sun swung low and full of gold like ripe and waiting fruit. Draco Malfoy walked down through the grass. There was no road.

Harry looked at Teddy and didn't feel the claws.

"It's true," said Harry. "I won't go away again."

Andromeda tilted her head. "Teddy will be happy."

Later, Harry tried to play with Teddy, who liked playing Space Aurors.

It was only later Harry found out Space Aurors was all Malfoy's idea.

They'd been playing Space Aurors a while when Harry went into the kitchen to get tin foil, and Malfoy and Andromeda were there. Malfoy was in the midst of talking in a low, solemn little voice, and stopped when Harry walked in the swinging door.

Malfoy looked strained, his mouth looking haggard with its thin lips and lines at the sides. When he turned to Harry his expression went tight as though drawn closed, and he swallowed hard.

Andromeda very politely got Harry tin foil, and then just as politely appeared to think Harry should leave. Harry edged out, and waited for a moment just beyond the door.

"I wish I had known her," Malfoy went on saying. "Mum never wanted it this way. If want you to know that I'm so s—"

Harry heard Teddy call out and hurriedly moved away.

Later, both Malfoy and Andromeda came out of the kitchen. Andromeda looked just as smooth and empty as ever. Malfoy's face was shining as though he had just won the House Cup.

Harry had never seen that smile, not directed at him anyway. The line was deep at the side of Malfoy's mouth, just like a dimple, and his whole face went with it easily, smiling too.

Harry had to catch his breath.

* * *

"I told you I had a brilliant plan," Malfoy said later. They were back at Chimera Downs.

"A brilliant plan to suck up." Harry frowned.

"You're just jealous," Malfoy said, smirking.

Harry frowned more deeply. "Of what?"

"Teddy likes me better," Malfoy said, and beamed.

"I wasn't aware you were even with him all that much."

Malfoy preened. "I have a way with children. And werewolves. I'm practically an animal expert."

"Children aren't animals." Harry glowered.

"How could you even think such a thing," Malfoy said, and patted him like a pet.

Harry just looked at him. "I think you shouldn't come here any more," he said suddenly.

Something flashed across Malfoy's face, and then his shoulders squared. He spoke with casual indifference. "I was just thinking the same thing. Well, Potter. Thank you for the visit to my aunt's. Next time I'll be sure to leave you behind."

"Ron and I go out to a pub," Harry went on, mostly ignoring Malfoy's snide tone.

"How very fine for you." His face was mostly white, and Harry regretted having said it in a backwards way. He hadn't meant to, when Malfoy had been smiling like that just a moment before, and he had looked so happy in a way that Harry had never seen him. He'd never really thought about Malfoy being happy before, but Harry had enjoyed that look, and the way it made him feel happy, too. "Let me by," said Malfoy coldly, because Harry was standing in front of the door.

"I mean, you and I should do it some time," Harry said. "Go to a pub, I mean."

Malfoy looked swiftly at him, and then his eyes slid away. "Let me by," he said again.

"Don't be a git, Malfoy," Harry said.

"I just remembered something I have to do at home, that's all," Malfoy said, still standing there and looking strangely lost.

"I'm trying to—I'm trying to make it normal," Harry explained. His chest was tightening.

Malfoy snorted.

"I mean," Harry said, "go out more. Live a life. That's what you said." Seeing Teddy had been such a big step, and it had gone so well.

Harry tried to think of the field.

"Of course you are. I'm just trying to go home." Malfoy's shoulders finally relaxed. He lingered there, but no longer tried to get by, both of them standing in the hallway, encased in semi-darkness. When Malfoy spoke again his voice was careless. "Of course we'll go to the pub. Just like you and Ronald Weasley. Just don't choose a place that's dirty," he added.

"Good," Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. "Fine."

Harry thought of something else. "When?"

Malfoy hitched a shoulder. "Whenever you like, Potter. I am at your disposal." He paused. "Now will you let me go?"

"What?" Harry said. "Oh," and moved away from the door.

Just when Malfoy was passing by, right at the door, he turned toward Harry. He was rather close, and the light still was dim. "I did mean it about the visit to my aunt's," he said suddenly. "Thank you." His voice was soft. "It was great."

Then he stepped out into the night, and Harry thought he just might make it.

* * *

In the next two months, Harry didn't get a flat. He didn't get a job either. He didn't really have to worry about money at this point; his parents and Sirius had left him lots, and he hadn't used much of his savings from his time with the Aurors.

Instead Harry took things slowly, but he began to do more and more, now without Ron and Hermione's help. He did things like going to the shop, and meeting Neville for lunch, and seeing one of Luna's naturalist art shows, and visiting Teddy. He did things like walking down Diagon Alley without the monster in his chest when people wanted to stop and snap pictures of him, things like meeting Ron and Hermione by the Ministry for lunch.

They went to a cafe in Muggle London, and Hermione talked about her job, and Ron groused about George's latest experiments. Harry ate his sandwich and drank his juice and eventually asked Hermione, "Do you still work with Draco Malfoy?"

It had been a while since the last time Harry had seen him. After a week had gone by without Malfoy coming down, Harry had begun to wonder where he was. Then he had remembered that he had told Malfoy he shouldn't come, and that they were going to meet instead, the way that friends sometimes went out together, except that he and Malfoy weren't exactly friends.

Maybe Malfoy was expecting that Harry would owl, or at least be the one who planned it. The problem was, Harry felt like he didn't know how to do it. When he went out with Ron they just did, and Ron was there, and asked him to hang out; that was all. It had been too long since Harry had been with people, and when Harry thought about it, even before then, Harry had just kept the friends he'd always had. He'd seen them by rote, and arranged the next meeting by rote, and didn't owl people to meet him at pubs, because he hadn't needed to.

Even in those dark days, after Harry had quit the Aurors and his friends, before he came to Chimera Downs, Harry hadn't needed to ask for company.

Chimera Downs was the place Harry went to in his mind, when everything was too much and he felt that he would explode with all the force of it, the way he had felt just before Dolores Umbridge. Chimera Downs was safe, because it was secret; no one would ever find him there and Harry would never hurt them there. Chimera Downs was the place where he could be alone.

But Malfoy had found him there. He could have ruined everything, but instead, Malfoy became a part of it. When Harry thought of the field, there was green grass, and a hill rolled gently down. There was no road. Malfoy walked down the slope, his white shirt open at the throat. The light was always gold.

In the field, Malfoy wasn't good and he wasn't bad. He just was there, like the crickets, and the smell of woodsmoke.

When Harry asked Hermione whether she still worked with Malfoy, he was thinking this, about the field, and about being normal. Malfoy had helped him there. Harry could show him he was a human being, after all.

Hermione looked surprised. "Sure," she said.

"He told me a little bit about it," Harry said.

"You've seen him?" Ron wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah." Harry didn't like lying to his friends. After he quit the Aurors and all the other things, he had lied to them a lot. Still, he didn't want to tell them about the field, so he didn't say anything more.

"That's okay, Harry," Hermione said quickly.

"I was just . . . wondering what it was like, is all," Harry said. "Working with Malfoy."

Hermione seemed to like him, rather.

"Gag me," said Ron.

"He's interesting," Hermione insisted.

"When was Malfoy ever interesting?" Ron demanded.

"There was sixth year," Harry said blandly.

Ron and Hermione stared at him.

"Well," said Harry, "he was."

Ron grunted. "At least Lucius Malfoy is out of our hair."

Harry realized that Malfoy had come to Chimera Downs over half a dozen times, and they had never once talked about his parents. "What's Lucius doing, then?" he asked, surprised.

"Nothing, so far as anyone knows," Ron said. "Supposedly the Aurors have a trace on him, but he never does anything. They live up north, somewhere in Yorkshire."

"What about the Manor?" Harry asked, brow furrowing.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione huffed. "Didn't you know? That was auctioned off years ago."

"Yeah," Ron put in. "And Narcissa Malfoy has a job."

Harry frowned. "What does Malfoy think of that?"

Hermione shrugged. "He doesn't really talk about it." Hermione frowned. "Come to think of it, he doesn't talk about anything like that. Not his parents. Not the war."

Better that way, Harry thought, and the conversation moved on to other things.

What Hermione said was true. Malfoy didn't talk about himself—he talked about work, and Pygmy Puffs, and Sinclair and a million things, but he had never mentioned the trace on Lucius, the Manor, Narcissa's job.

Harry wondered why Malfoy had even started coming to Chimera Downs in the first place. He had said he didn't want to be Harry Potter's friend. Maybe he really had just wanted to prove that Harry wasn't any better than anyone else. Maybe he had just wanted to put an old childhood rivalry to rest.

Malfoy always had liked projects, especially projects that involved making Harry's life harder. Whatever his mission, Malfoy must have accomplished it. He could not doubt that he had got Harry to listen to him. Perhaps now he was done, he was no longer interested. Maybe if Harry had given Draco a gold star at Hogwarts, slapped him on the back and for no reason and without reference to anything said, "You were right," they could've saved themselves years of animosity.

Ron had to get back to the shop, and Hermione had to get back to the Ministry. Harry went with her, and asked Hermione where Malfoy's desk was.

She hesitated. "You should know that Malfoy's grown up," she warned. "He's a highly functioning part of this office. He's actually really important to what I do here."

Scowling, Harry muttered, "I'm not the one who slapped him that time."

"I just mean—" Hermione looked anxious—"you can ignore half of what he says, really."

"What?" Harry asked, surprised.

"If he baits you," she explained. "He's so high-strung, and he can be quite . . . nervous around . . . well, people. But he's so sweet once you get to know him," she added quickly.

"Sweet," Harry repeated, not comprehending.

"He's so very thoughtful. And earnest. And Harry—he tries really really hard."

Harry had never noticed Malfoy being very thoughtful, but told Hermione he would keep it in mind. Still looking anxious, she pointed him over to Malfoy's desk. The cubicles were separated by partitions, and Malfoy's had a desk piled high with all variety of papers and some strange objects, with a blond head bent close over something.

"It's not very glamorous," Harry said.

Malfoy stilled for a moment, but by the time he turned around, he did not look startled. He looked entirely blank. "Au contraire," Malfoy said, sounding flippant. "Just now I am negotiating a contract with a society of werewolves, who wish to be recognized officially as werewolves rather than wizards."

"Um," Harry said. "Contract negotiations? Still don't sound glamorous."

"Oh." Malfoy's shoulders slumped. "That's just because you're a peon."

Harry looked at him for a while. "Want some coffee?"

For some reason, this made Malfoy smirk. "No thank you, Potter. Hot chocolate. And whipped cream, with the nutmeg sprinkled on top, and one of those little straws."

Harry blinked. "I meant, er. For you to go out for coffee. With me."

"Huh." Malfoy's shoulders straightened back a little. He swiveled back around in his chair to face his desk. "I don't know. I'm very busy, you see. Being glamorous. This is a very high profile professional career. No rest for the wicked and extraordinarily talented."

"Oh." Harry remembered what he had thought about being Malfoy's project, and wondered again why Malfoy had come to Chimera Downs at all. "You said we could," he pointed out.

"Mmm," Malfoy said, very intent on his papers. "I suppose I did. That was then; this is now."

"Right," Harry said. He wondered if this was Malfoy's way of saying he'd done at Chimera Downs what he'd come to do. Maybe it was Malfoy's way of saying he should have come sooner. Maybe it was Malfoy's way of being a prat. Harry turned around and walked away.

Harry was at the door to the office room when Malfoy jogged up behind him, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

"What?" said Harry.

Malfoy let him go, not quite meeting his eyes. "Fine," he said. "I'll go for coffee."

Harry's brow wrinkled. "Thought you were busy."

"I am," Malfoy said defensively.

"Look, we don't have to."

Malfoy rubbed his arm. "If you don't want to," he began, and stopped, as though it were a complete sentence.

Harry still frowned, puzzled. "I want to."

The line showed at the side of Malfoy's mouth. He still wasn't quite meeting Harry's eyes. "Well then," he murmured, and didn't finish again.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Do you want to?"

"Hmm?" Malfoy pretended to be distracted, then looked up. "What? Oh. Yes, I suppose."

"You suppose," Harry repeated.

"Yes. Well, I know you want to so much." The smile was quirking at the corner of Malfoy's mouth now.

"I want to so much," Harry repeated again, incredulously.

"Yes," Malfoy said again. He smiled then, not the smile he'd worn after Andromeda's; this one was closed-lipped and still absent, as though he was thinking of something else. "It's going to be grand. When?"

Harry looked at Malfoy's smile, and said, "How about right now?"

Malfoy looked scandalized. "I'm at work."

"Oh," Harry said. "Maybe afterwards, then."

For a flash, Malfoy looked uncertain. "Well, I have . . . appointments. You know. So much to—" He looked at Harry, who was frowning at him. "Yes," said Malfoy suddenly. "Alright. Tonight. This very evening. Unto the breach! As they say, and that rot."

"Who says that?" Harry asked, nose wrinkling.

"Everyone," Malfoy said airily. "It's all the rage; you know how these things are."

"No."

"Oh." Malfoy waved a hand hazily. He still wore a strange smile. "Well, things are that way. Trust me. I know things."

"You do," said Harry.

"Mm-hm."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Okay. I'll see you tonight."

"Harry," Malfoy said.

Harry stopped. "Yeah?"

"Thanks." Then Malfoy shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away, walking back down the corridor filled with cubes.

* * *

They went to a pub instead of out for coffee. Malfoy chattered about the werewolf negotiations, fluently and agitatedly, just as though he had raw nerves and the endless noise was soothing to them, the way it was to Harry. "When you have the talk with Teddy, leave all the difficult werewolf bits to me," he was saying. "I am a supreme negotiator, now."

"What talk with Teddy?"

"Honestly, Potter." The line appeared by Malfoy's mouth, and his eyes danced. "I could deal with any werewolf now," Malfoy went on in that heedless, cocky way of his he used when nothing at all mattered. "I would even win over Professor Lupin."

"Er," said Harry again. "Did you ever try to win over Lupin?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. Everyone tried to win over Lupin."

Harry stared at him. "Really?"

Malfoy tinged pink, but lifted his chin. "He was everyone's favorite. Didn't you know that? Except for Snape."

"Snape wasn't anyone's favorite."

"Oh yes he was," Malfoy said and beamed. "Snape was bloody brilliant."

"He was that, I guess," Harry agreed.

Malfoy's positively dreamy look melted away into a half-hearted sneer. "Well, of course you never could see past your own nose, being in sodding Gryffindor."

"Dumbledore said Snape should have been in Gryffindor."

Shock momentarily passed over Malfoy's face, and then he masked his expression. "Yes, he would say that," Malfoy said, very low.

Harry thought of telling Malfoy what had happened with Snape, and didn't. "I'm sure you're the werewolf negotiations expert," he reassured Malfoy instead.

Malfoy wore a little frown, looking down at the table. "What're you going to do?" he asked abruptly, looking up.

"Do?" Harry repeated. "About the werewolves?" He did know that he didn't want to talk about Snape or Dumbledore.

"I don't know, maybe." Malfoy put his elbows on the table. "I meant for your occupation. Don't you remember how I told you to get a job?"

"Oh. That. Well, I hadn't really . . ."

Malfoy dropped his head into his hands. "You're hopeless. I think I feel a migraine coming on."

"I'm just not sure I'm ready for—"

"No, really, I see little lights in front of my eyes. I think I need to go home."

"Er."

"Not because of the migraine, of course," Malfoy explained, looking up and speaking conversationally. "No. Of course the reason I must go home immediately, right this second, is because you think the world is your oyster and you can just lie about and gaze at it." He pursed his lips, tilting his head. "Or you think you can crawl into a crab shell and off yourself. I'm not sure which. I'm sure it has an ocean theme, though."

"I'm supposed to decide right now?"

"You're supposed to have been thinking about it. It's your life. Your life. Two words I'm sure you don't understand. I'm going now."

"Don't." Harry pulled him back into the booth.

"Help," Draco cried. "I'm being molested!"

"I've thought about it," Harry said.

"About molesting me?" Malfoy perked up.

"Will you shut up? I've been thinking, kind of, of doing kind of like Lockhart."

"Help!" Malfoy struggled again. "I'm being molested by someone whose life's aspiration is to be a madman. He might be mad already. In fact," Malfoy continued conversationally, "You already are. You have a kind of crazed look about the whites of your eyes."

"I do?"

"So," Malfoy continued blithely, at last extricating himself in order to sit across from Harry again. "Another fan fallen victim to the charms of Gorgeous Gilderoy. Just tell me one thing. Was it the golden mane?"

"What? No. Ew. Gorgeous Gilderoy?"

"We can forget I said that," Malfoy said hastily.

Harry released a noisy breath, running a hand through his hair. "What I meant was, he . . . did a lot of stuff. Saw a lot of places, did a lot of things. I guess he might've had jobs, but he moved around a lot. It wasn't like he was an Auror or anything."

"No, only a world famous author. You're not going to write, are you? Help," Malfoy began, with more panic than before, "I'm being molested by a _writer_."

"I'm not molesting you."

"Any more. I still can't believe you want to model your life on the puffed-up, self-important, long-haired incompetent."

Harry thought about saying something about Lucius Malfoy. Then he looked again at Malfoy, whose face was a little pink from his daisy wine and interest and possibly getting molested. His lips were twitching. Harry decided to shut up about Lucius for good.

"It's like this," Harry said instead. "Lockhart claimed to do a million things. I know he didn't do them actually, but what if someone could? Travel that much, I mean, and learn that much, and be involved in so many things? And there's Dumbledore; he did a dozen times as much and he actually _did_ the things he claimed to. He was a professor at Hogwarts, but he also worked on alchemy, and started the Order of the Phoenix, and he was the Supreme Mugwump, and—well, all sorts of things." Harry traced lines in the condensation on the table. "You know, after he died, at his funeral . . ."

He saw Malfoy flinch, and that was when Harry realized that for the first time, he'd actually _forgotten_. He looked again at Malfoy, at the pink quickly fading from his cheeks. Harry knew that he would never shut up about Dumbledore for good; Dumbledore was too important and too much of a part of Harry's life. But Harry also knew that somewhere he'd stopped blaming Malfoy, or forgiven him.

Harry repeated abruptly, "After he died. At his funeral. The merpeople, they mourned him too. And I started thinking about how he could talk to them, and knew their language. And I think that without . . . talking to mermaids, and researching dragons' blood, and defeating Grindelwald, and all those things, he couldn't have been . . . the man he was." Harry frowned. "I don't want to be Dumbledore, but—"

"Good."

Harry grimaced. "He meant well."

Malfoy twirled his daisy wine in his glass. "So, you don't want to be Dumbledore," he led on.

"I want to . . . make a difference. I don't think I'm cut out for the Aurors; it's too . . . rigid."

"I don't understand." Malfoy batted his lashes rapidly. "Harry Potter isn't good at following the rules? Are we talking about the same Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? The hero? The savior? The Golden Warrior Of—"

Harry kicked him under the table, and smiled. It was nice. It was really nice, actually, having someone make fun of him. It was nice and exactly what he wanted, because Harry could not have talked to Ron like this; he couldn't talk to Hermione like this. Harry felt like he could say whatever he wanted, and Malfoy would still just say the same thing. He would insult him or laugh at him or make a joke of it, but his mouth would twitch in that way he had, and everything would be okay.

"You were saying?" Malfoy said politely, after kicking him back.

Harry thought about it. "When I really think about what I want to do . . . I think about hearing what the mermaids have to say."

"Ah ha!" Malfoy's mouth wasn't just twitching. He was grinning, and there was a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"What?" Harry said suspiciously.

"I knew you had a sea theme."

* * *

Harry went to the pub every once in a while with Malfoy—nearly once or twice a week, in fact, the way you sometimes did with friends.

Malfoy was interesting the way Hermione was interesting, but also he was more blunt, and did impressions, and was a lot less understanding of other people. His voice was nice the way Hermione's was, but his hair was nothing like hers, and his eyes, and his smile. Harry found himself looking at the way that Malfoy looked, all the little details collected to put in that picture, the one with the rolling green, and soft breezes, the one where there was no road. He looked at Malfoy and it was almost like looking at something new; there were so many things he had never seen.

Harry also saw more of Hermione and Ron, not just on Thursdays. He saw more of Teddy too. Teddy called him Uncle Harry, and Harry taught him to ride a broom. They came in from out of doors red-faced and laughing, and drank super-food smoothies.

Andromeda was still stilted and yet very kind, and neither of those things were quite so difficult any more. Sometimes she came out riding too. She was a bit of a fitness junkie, and the smoothies were brewed with energy boosters, and she encouraged Harry to try a brand new diet composed exclusively of legumes. Apparently the chocolates had not really endeared Malfoy to her at all, but Andromeda forgave Malfoy for it anyway, and Harry took Teddy frequently out for ice cream without Andromeda finding out.

"You'll spoil him," Malfoy said.

"But he likes it," said Harry.

"You'll ruin his health." Most likely Malfoy was worried Harry would get one over on him, in which case Teddy might start liking Harry better.

"Every once in a while can't hurt," said Harry.

"I'll tell my aunt," Malfoy said, as a last resort.

"I'll tell her about the banana split," Harry threatened.

Malfoy looked hunted. "I won't tell if you don't," he whispered, so they both took Teddy out for ice cream.

Teddy got the best end of the deal.

Meanwhile, Hermione approached her due date. Harry felt the baby kick, and he was not afraid any more. When Hugo was born, Harry was made his godfather, too.

"Marvelous Granger trusts you, really, when you consider," Malfoy drawled.

"Consider what?" Harry asked, scowling.

"The hot fudge sundaes," Malfoy said.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"Of course I wouldn't. My lips are sealed." Malfoy paused. "Can we introduce Ted to pie?"

The first time Harry held Hugo, Harry thought of the green field.

There were rolling hills. There was no road. Malfoy walked down the slope. His cuffs were turned up to expose his wrists, and his wrists were bony.

Holding Hugo, Harry was trying not to think of Sirius, of babies, best friends, the betrayal of best friends, and the failure of best friends. Looking at the helpless lump of flesh, its flailing fists and bright eyes, made something large swell in Harry's chest that could break its way out, burn its way down, destroy everyone and everything that could lay a hand on or harm this child.

"Harry just doesn't like holding him," Ron said. He was holding the baby proudly, among intermittent and skittish protests that he might drop him; his mum had done it with Percy and look at Percy now.

"Figures." Hermione huffed so that her fringe fluffed up. "Men. You all hold him like he's a Quaffle anyway."

"Hey," Ron said, protectively clutching the bundle. "I stopped George from using him for a Bludger!"

Harry felt like telling them their son was the Snitch because it was the most precious of all, and began to think that what Malfoy had been saying was right: Granger's cooing was an infectious disease and you should only approach her in sterile, baby-free environments. The warm, content, over-sentimental glow should've been a comfort, but the way it twined in Harry's heart with the monster in his chest made Harry wary whenever the baby was about.

Harry spent time with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, George, Charlie when he was in England. Harry even saw Percy, from time to time. He saw Ginny.

He just didn't go to her wedding.

Instead, Harry owled Malfoy, and stayed at Chimera Downs.

Malfoy appeared on the rise after stars were stippling the sky. He came down in darkness just like he used to do. His shirt was white, and when he got to the gate, his smile was a sail.

"I've brought wine," Malfoy said. His voice was smooth and low.

"Come in," Harry croaked.

Malfoy didn't seem to expect Harry to talk. Instead he told more stories of Sinclair, of unicorns, of how Hermione was at work, of magical creatures Harry had never heard of.

"I thought Snorkacks didn't exist," Harry asked at one point.

"More fool you," Malfoy said gently, and there was something strange about his smile.

It looked soft, that was it.

"Anyway, didn't Lovegood talk about them? She was the expert," Malfoy said.

"I thought Luna was cracked, half the time."

Malfoy paused, his hand poised mid-air. "Thought she was your friend."

"Oh. She is," Harry said, and thought of friends. People he loved and wasn't with; instead here he was with Draco Malfoy, because Ginny Weasley was getting married.

Harry thought of the field. The green grass, the slight breeze: there was no road down. And—and . . .

"I want to go outside," Harry said, because he needed to see the field.

Malfoy went with him. They stood by the gate which wasn't white, and looked up at the stars. Their breath puffed out in the cold winter air.

"The Blacks are all up there," Malfoy said, after a while. "We have legends in the stars."

Harry couldn't see the field. He closed his eyes. "Malfoy—"

"Harry," Malfoy said, and pressed their shoulders together. "Hush. It's about family. How they'll always be with you, even when they're gone."

There was a monster in Harry's chest.

But Malfoy began to tell the story of Cassiopea, Cepheus, Andromeda and Cetus, Perseus and Pegasus. He talked non-stop, but this time it wasn't agitated talking, the excited babble he sometimes used when secretly Harry suspected he might be nervous. Instead Malfoy's voice was smooth and low.

It seemed to fill the field, which in the winter night was dead and silent, full of broken, frosted grass.

Harry closed his eyes and listened to that voice. The monster paced, and curled, took three turns inside his chest, and settled down to sleep.

Harry hugged Ginny that Christmas, and wanted to tell her that he would always love her no matter what, that there would always be a place in his heart for her. Then Ginny smiled at Dean, just a glance over Harry's shoulder, and that place in Harry's heart for her began to howl and he had to leave. But he came back for Boxing Day; Ginny forgave him and Dean even gave him the time of day. George was there with Angelina, Bill with Fleur and all their children, Percy even and Charlie, and Harry didn't even feel intimidated by all the people.

In fact, he went out in public. He walked the streets and was maybe almost normal. In his mind was a field of green, and he was a man.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Please be advised that parts of this fic do deal with some mental disorder.

**Chapter 3**

Hermione was talking about something that had happened at work one day when Harry said, "Right. Malfoy told me about that."

Both Hermione and Ron looked at him, and Harry wondered why he had said it. His friends still didn't know that Malfoy had come to Chimera Downs, or that Malfoy was the reason Harry had brought himself to leave, and try to have a normal life. Harry wasn't keeping it a secret, exactly. He just wanted to try to keep the field on Chimera Downs as a separate place, a place no one knew about and no one could touch—except for Malfoy.

Harry still couldn't explain why being with Malfoy was easier than being with people he loved. Malfoy, who had always aggravated him, was more peaceful than the people who made him happy.

"When did you talk to Draco?" Hermione asked politely.

"I've been seeing him," said Harry.

"What d'you mean _seeing him_?" Ron asked, outraged.

"Just... you know, we hang out sometimes."

Hermione looked blank. "I had no idea."

Ron looked at Harry incredulously. Then he asked, hopefully, "When you say you hang out with him, do you mean you beat him up? Punch him in the face occasionally?"

"What? No, why would I?"

"I think it's wonderful," Hermione said suddenly.

"Because that would make sense," Ron went on. "Do you at least kick him a little?"

"Not really."

"Draco doesn't get out much, you know," Hermione went on.

"Because people might punch him in the face," Ron pointed out, earning glares from both of them.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked Hermione.

"Well, Ron's kind of right." Harry scowled and started to interrupt, and she hastily added, "Not necessarily about the punching, but being a former Death Eater, Draco isn't exactly popular."

"So he doesn't go out in public?" Harry asked, puzzled. Malfoy had never seemed afraid of the pubs they went to. He'd been awkward the first time Harry had invited him out, but Harry had just thought Malfoy had been deciding whether he could get over his schoolboy grudge long enough to have a drink with him in public.

"Oh, he goes out all the time," Hermione explained. "But most people are—well, sometimes people aren't very nice. Sometimes when it's his turn to make a creature confiscation he has to have back-up."

Ron snorted. "That's nothing new. Malfoy's always had cronies."

"But that's just it. He doesn't have anyone. It's just that sometimes people are so hostile toward him that he needs reinforcements. And you even have to be careful who you send him with. Most people in the department like him, but if you're sending him with someone from Records or even an Auror—well, Ron. You've heard me talk about it." Hermione looked at her husband pointedly.

"If everyone in the department likes him so much, couldn't other people do the jobs that'll be dangerous for him?" Harry asked.

"He insists. I think he thinks he needs to prove himself." She frowned as Ron scoffed loudly. "No, Ron, really, I've told you, he's changed. He's the best at what he does as well." She sounded upset.

"Malfoy never told me," Harry said to Hermione, feeling perplexed.

Hermione shrugged. "He's a private person, I suppose. Like I told you before, he's very sweet. Everyone likes him once they give him a chance but I think there are very few he would consider friends."

Harry thought about that. It was true that for all Malfoy's chatter, he didn't share much. Harry had learned more about his situation, about his parents and his personal life, from a few short exchanges with Hermione than from Malfoy himself. He found it hard to imagine Malfoy without all the people he had surrounded himself with at Hogwarts. Ron had been right about that: Malfoy had rarely been without Crabbe and Goyle, and Parkinson had trailed after him like a puppy. More often than not he'd sat at the middle of a knot of Slytherins, the center of attention and in his element.

Malfoy was bright and talkative, just like he had been then. He had told Harry he was happy, and Harry had believed him without thought, because surely everyone but himself was happy.

_Selfish_, said Malfoy's voice.

Harry was thinking this one night at the pub, while Malfoy babbled on about how crap the Chudley Cannons were. He never mentioned the Harpies when he was on a Quidditch rant, for which Harry was always grateful.

"Their Keeper!" Malfoy was saying, waving his hands about. "Is he on Muscle Max? Doesn't he know that leeches your brain? Of course, he wouldn't know if his brain has been leeched already. Which it probably has, considering their Left Beater."

"Do you still play?" Harry said suddenly.

"What?" Malfoy's hands tightened around his glass, which held a peculiar-looking concoction with a straw. "Of course," he said, in a detached kind of way. "Former Death Eater versus Ministry. Guess who always wins."

"You don't, do you."

"Who am I supposed to play with?" Malfoy asked irritably.

Harry shrugged. "Goyle? Zabini? I don't know. All your little friends from school."

"Zabini is in Montreal."

"Why?"

Malfoy was getting more and more defensive. "Why do you care?"

Harry shrugged again. "I was just asking, Malfoy."

"Well," Malfoy said, looking ruffled, "don't."

"Don't ask you about your friends?"

"I don't ask you about yours," Malfoy said pointedly.

Harry scowled. "Yes, you do."

Malfoy looked scandalized. "As if I would ever."

"I guess you don't ask about Hermione and Ron," Harry said. "But you already know about them."

"Sadly." Malfoy stirred his drink with the straw.

Impulsively, Harry said, "Want to come with me to Ron and Hermione's for dinner on Thursday?"

For a moment Malfoy looked stunned. He very quickly recovered, frowned, and looked down at his drink. He poked it unkindly. "Ha ha, very funny, Potter," he said.

"I meant it."

"Well, of course you meant it." Malfoy's stabs at his drink were getting more and more vicious. "You're ridiculously earnest."

"Well?" Harry said.

"Why should I want to have dinner with your friends?"

Harry was pretty sure Malfoy meant to sound quarrelsome, but somehow he'd misjudged his tone and only seemed uncertain. "I don't know," Harry said honestly, shrugging. "Because I want you to."

Malfoy looked up. There were pink spots high on his cheeks, and his eyes seemed very bright. "You—" he started to say, then cut himself off, his gaze drifting down again. "Have you cleared this with them?"

"Hermione says she likes you."

"Then you haven't."

"They'll be alright with it."

"Weasley doesn't like me."

"He'll get over it."

Malfoy was gazing into his drink with an expression of deepest concentration; perhaps, Harry thought, he was trying to decipher why on earth it was so pink. "Because you say so?"

"I got over it," Harry pointed out.

"Have you," Malfoy said, but it wasn't a question. He was still looking at his drink.

"Mostly." Harry smirked. "Except when you're a git."

"Thanks for that."

"Then are you coming?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

Malfoy shot him a disbelieving look, caught sight of Harry's grin and quickly looked away. "Yes."

Harry regarded him curiously. "Why?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Potter. Because you asked."

* * *

"Malfoy, Harry?" Ron exclaimed when he opened his front door the following evening to find them both standing there. "Have you forgotten he poisoned me?"

"Is that why your face looks like that?" Malfoy asked politely.

Red in the face, Ron gestured wildly, evidently lost for words. Harry was starting to think perhaps he should have warned him ahead of time.

"Is it also why he can't control his arms?"

"Ron," Harry said, shooting Malfoy a stern look, "he's just baiting you. Ignore him."

"Why have him around if the best you can do with him is ignore him?"

"Aesthetic appeal," Malfoy said. "I have a very fine brow."

"You really don't," Harry told him. "Ron, he's alright."

"It's _Malfoy_, Harry. Bloody hell, it was bad enough when Hermione was going on about him, but you..."

"Granger's got good things to say, has she?" Malfoy was never very good at hiding earnest pleasure, though Harry thought maybe he was trying to conceal it, especially when Hermione appeared at the door.

Her brows raised as she glanced from Harry to Draco. Then she looked at her husband, snorted, and said, "Draco, Harry, please come in. _Honestly_, Ron."

Muttering something unintelligible, Ron turned and strode back inside. Malfoy, squaring his shoulders, followed after him with a nod to Hermione and a pink flush in his cheeks.

One of the things Hermione admired about Malfoy, Harry discovered to his surprise a little while later, was his taste in music.

"You really should give Sting a go," she was saying to Harry as Malfoy nodded agreement.

"Soft rock." Ron made a disgusted noise. "I tell you, the whole world's mad. The only sane people in this house are me and the three-month-old."

"The three-month-old is dribbling like a crazed lunatic," Malfoy informed him, "and Sting is _magnificent_. You probably like _Celestina Warbeck_ or something." He looked at Hermione. "He does, doesn't he?"

"You mean you don't like . . . ?" Harry trailed off. "But what about 'Love At First Spell'?" All three of them turned to him with incredulous expressions. "It's a classic," Harry finished, disgruntled.

"It's alright, Harry." Malfoy's tone was gentle. "You're not one of the sane ones in the house."

Ron scowled at Malfoy, and Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. Then she moved onto less contentious subjects, talking about work to Malfoy. They got caught up in a discussion of kneazle lore, leaving Ron and Harry easily behind. Malfoy shouldn't have looked so happy about it, since it was easy to get Hermione caught up in lore of any kind, but Harry was noticing that Malfoy had a tendency to hover where Hermione was concern, and to listen very seriously to everything she said. It was more than anyone could have ever said for Harry and Ron.

Ron leaned over and said, "There's only one way to handle this."

Harry, afraid that Ron had noticed Malfoy was a trifle sweet on his wife, whispered, "Handle what?"

"Malfoy in the living room," Ron answered. Harry felt pretty sure Ron's suggestion was going to involve fists somehow, because he had a very determined look on his face. Instead, Ron said, "I'm going to get him a butterbeer."

Then Ron went into the kitchen, Harry looking after him in surprise.

"What do you think, Harry?" Malfoy asked suddenly.

"Huh?" said Harry, and Hermione started enthusiastically explaining something about Egyptian cats and gods while Harry tried his best to pay attention this time.

So attentive was he, in fact, that he didn't notice Malfoy slipping away until he was in the kitchen. Oh god. "I'd better go see what Malfoy's up to," Harry said nervously, and stood up.

"Probably just helping Ron," Hermione said offhandedly.

Harry stared at her, halfway out of his seat. Ron was right. Everyone really had gone crazy. "Helping make Ron want to beat the crap out of him, you mean," he said.

"No. Ron's getting drinks, isn't he?"

"What?" said Harry, and then Malfoy and Ron came out of the kitchen, each holding two bottles, Malfoy smiling and Ron looking mostly bemused and neither of them sporting any visible bruises.

There was something about Malfoy sneaking off to the kitchen and coming back looking like the cat that got the cream that was very unsettling.

"Here," said Malfoy airily, handing Harry a bottle. "I propose a toast."

"What for?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"To the Chudley Cannons," Malfoy announced grandly.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Malfoy, you—"

"Love the Chudley Cannons? Ardently admire and adore them? Yes, I do." Smugly, Malfoy raised his bottle.

"You're a lying git," said Ron. "But I'll toast to that."

Malfoy beamed.

* * *

In the last few months—since Ginny's wedding, since Harry had started thinking he might actually make it—Harry had been meeting Ron a couple of times a month to play Quidditch with whoever else they could scrounge up to make two teams. Playing again was great; the only problem was that no one but Ginny could really come close to matching him as Seeker. Even if they had not had an unspoken agreement which meant playing against Ginny was out, she would have won any game too quickly were she Seeker anyway. This made for some mismatched teams, and boring matches.

For all that Malfoy had been a horrible cheat at school, he really was a fabulous Seeker and so, each eager to keep in practice, they came to play one-on-one games from time to time, meeting on Saturdays. The competition was good and so was the chance to burn off some excess energy. Harry had to think of the field less and less.

He kept thinking, though, about the conversation he had had with Hermione about Malfoy, and he realized two things. The first was that Malfoy really loved Quidditch. He didn't love Quidditch the way Ginny loved Quidditch—Harry was convinced no one really loved Quidditch the way Ginny loved Quidditch. But Malfoy did love it; you could tell by the way he was those Saturdays.

He was a little ridiculous, really, zooming about and crowing, reminding Harry just a little of the way he'd been at school. Malfoy was all confidence and posturing, jeering even, because Malfoy was unhealthily competitive. He was also competitive in a breathless, utterly elated way; "you're going down, Potter!" was perhaps his favorite comment ever, and he really really meant it.

But even if he became a holy terror whenever it looked like Harry was going to get to the Snitch ahead of him, Malfoy was careening with unassailable glee the entire time. When he did lose, he demanded rematches and made ridiculous excuses, but he was pink and breathless and his eyes were alight with exhilaration.

Afterwards they would go for lunch or dinner, and Malfoy would talk about their match the whole time, waving his arms, using his hand to imitate his broom. He recreated Harry's moves, too, and it wasn't always to imitate the times Harry had lost control. Once Malfoy even said, "That was amazing, that turn. How did you do it?"

And Harry had to say, "Well, you've got to pull up a bit first."

Malfoy's eyes lit up. "You're going to teach me."

Harry smirked. "Am I?"

"Oh, yes. I'm going to be invincible at Quidditch."

"Why's that?"

"Don't you see? With your powers and mine combined, I would be unbeatable."

"Wouldn't I be able to beat you?"

Malfoy looked incredulous. "Don't be ridiculous. As if I would ever give you _my_ powers."

The next time they played, Malfoy caught the Snitch, and he didn't let Harry live it down for days.

The second thing Harry realized was that most of the other people Malfoy might have played Quidditch with were dead, or in prison, or had moved away.

Harry was thinking about this, about Malfoy loving Quidditch and not having anyone to play with, when he invited Malfoy to play a game with his friends. He wasn't thinking about the rest of it, how no one liked Malfoy, how in fact most of the people he played with actively hated him.

But Malfoy accepted. He came to the field looking white and nervous and extremely drawn about the mouth and eyes. He was painstakingly polite to everyone—except Harry, because he had never really been polite to Harry. No one was pleased to have him there, but no one made him leave.

If one thing could be said for Malfoy, it was that he was persistent. He played the game doggedly, and his team won the match.

No one clapped Malfoy on the back, and he did not stay to go out to the pub afterward. The next time Harry asked, Malfoy still agreed to come, and by degrees, everyone got more and more used to the idea that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could be friends.

That was how Malfoy got to better know the Weasleys. In time Ron had actually come to quite like Sting, but the rest of the family had suffered less exposure, and tended to be wary.

Arthur was never rude to Malfoy but sometimes Harry caught the puzzled glances he threw him, like he was looking at another version of Lucius. Molly's maternal instincts seemed to take over and she tended to feed him pies on the basis that he was too pale, but she kept her distance. Bill, his scars a constant presence, wasn't disposed to like him, and nor was Charlie, who apparently didn't think Suzy the spine-tailed blue would approve of him. George expressed a very definite desire to lock him in a Vanishing Cabinet just like Montague, except, for preference, the part where they found him again. Percy, on the other hand, rather liked him, which was damning in and of itself.

Ginny only said, "He cheats at Quidditch, Harry."

This was really all that needed to be said, when Harry came one day to the practice pitch they all reserved once a fortnight, with a broom, Quidditch gloves, a Snitch, and Draco Malfoy.

But this too, eventually, changed—due in part, Harry suspected, to secret kitchen visits. In fact, Harry thought Malfoy and Molly spent an abnormal amount of time in there. One time Malfoy came out with flour on his cheekbone, looking very earnestly pleased.

Later that day, Teddy learned about pie.

Once Molly had warmed to Malfoy, the rest of the family started to follow. Arthur spent more time with him and seemed to realize that he really wasn't his father. Bill was too big a man to hold a grudge, and Suzy too big a dragon to focus too much dislike on one Malfoy. Percy—well, Percy was family.

George still didn't like Malfoy, and the feeling was mutual. A few pranks were traded back and forth between them, too malicious for the tastes of Harry and Hermione and anyone with an ounce of brain, _honestly_, Ron, no one should be laughing. But George had to admit Malfoy could really play Quidditch, and Malfoy had to admit that George could really torment people, and continual, inventive annoyance of others was something in which Malfoy took keen interest. They settled into a kind of grudging respect for one another and were occasionally seen plotting together, which kind of scared Harry and Hermione and anyone with an ounce of brain. Ron thought he really shouldn't laugh and did anyway.

Ginny only said, "He still cheats at Quidditch."

Ginny could hold a grudge for a long, long time. Also, Ginny could be really, really obsessive about Quidditch.

In some ways it made Harry love her more, that she was so fiery, stubborn, competitive, so willfully loyal. In other ways it made Harry angry, made him want to shake all the hatred out of her, _force_ her to accept Malfoy, force her to do whatever he wanted or needed her to do because she couldn't be her own person; she was his.

She was married to Dean Thomas, who seemed to think Malfoy was alright, maybe because of the way Harry stayed away from Ginny and close to Malfoy.

Most of the monster was buried deep inside Harry these days, not a problem, but the sight of Ginny's flaming hair and subtle curves could draw it forth. Most people didn't any more. Malfoy certainly wouldn't. Malfoy had been part of the impetus to get the monster under control in the first place.

* * *

"You know, there were a lot of strange rumors about you," Malfoy said one day. It was a Saturday; they'd spent the afternoon on broomsticks chasing a Snitch. They were sweaty and exhausted. Harry was lying in the grass with his arm over his eyes and Malfoy was somewhere beside him, determined to exert his superiority over the grass by ripping it up in handfuls and letting it flutter about him. "Rumors about all the crazy stuff you did after quitting the Aurors."

Malfoy had never brought up the specifics of Harry's behavior during that time, and Harry didn't want to talk about it. He was keeping the monster down.

"They're all bollocks, of course, the rumors," Malfoy said, yanking out more grass. "But there was one more bollocksy than the rest. I don't even know why people bothered, had nothing to do with anything, just stupid, Boy Who Lived Savior of the World Chosen One Gryffindor—"

"Got it."

"—Hero Golden Boy gossip."

Harry lay there and did not pull his arm from his eyes. He thought of the field. There, the grass waved in sunlight. There was no road. Malfoy walked down the slope; his legs were long and sure.

"Well," Harry said, after a while. "Come on then. What rumor was it?"

Malfoy stopped tugging on the grass. Harry could feel his gaze. "That you're a homosexual."

Harry relaxed and didn't say anything.

Malfoy flicked around the poor murdered pieces of grass some more. "I didn't believe it, of course. Even if everything else was true, that wouldn't be."

"Hm." Harry stirred. "Why's that?"

"What?" Malfoy said, startled. "Because it was the most bizarre. It had to be a lie."

"I always rather thought making a dragon dance the paso doble was the most bizarre." That one wasn't true. Making that dragon walk away had become making a dragon dance, which had then become the paso doble. Harry didn't even know what a paso doble was.

"Don't be an idiot," Malfoy said. "No doubt the second Weasley can make a Norwegian Ridgeback dance the can-can."

"A French dragon would be more suited."

"You mean a Parisian Wetback, and they're all extinct."

"You spend a lot of time talking to Charlie," Harry said.

"He's decent. Unlike some Weasleys we know."

"Hm," Harry said again. Then, after a pause, "It's half true."

"What? That the Weasleys are alright? Let's see. I like William. And Charles. And Molly is . . ." Malfoy stared into space for a moment, and Harry remembered Malfoy's thing about crazy hair. "Ronald is acceptable, and Arthur reminds me of—this doesn't bear discussion. " For a moment, Malfoy seemed taken aback. "Surely that's not half."

"That I'm homosexual," Harry clarified. "It's half true."

Malfoy was silent for a while. "But you liked girls in school."

"That's what I mean. I like girls, too." He looked at Malfoy curiously, wondering what his reaction would be. He had first discovered his interest in men as a form of self-destruction, but now he didn't think of it that way. He tried not to think of it at all, actually, because being interested in anyone at this point seemed like too much too soon.

Harry hadn't known what the rest of the world thought, when he started sleeping around with men. He hadn't cared what the rest of the world thought. But now he wondered what Malfoy would think, whether pureblood bigotry extended to homosexuality. If it did, if Malfoy was disgusted with him, it would be . . . disappointing, Harry realized. He was really starting to like Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy merely sniffed. "As I recall, you liked girls enough to be snogging Mrs. Weasley-Thomas almost before my guts were back inside my body."

"You're the one who's so fond of reminding me I'm no longer sixteen, Malfoy. And Ginny and I are long since over."

"You sure about that? I see the way you look at her."

"Do you?" Harry asked, distracted. "We are."

"Fine."

"Okay."

After another short pause, Malfoy said again, "Fine. But I have a question."

Harry finally moved his arm from his eyes, slanting a glance at Malfoy, wondering what his reaction was. "Yeah?"

"Was it Lockhart's flaxen locks that first made you fall in love with him or not?"

* * *

That summer, Harry learned to speak to mermaids.

He did not go to the lake at Hogwarts. Instead he went to Cumbria and, using gillyweed, got to know the merfolk there.

Merfolk were not welcoming beings, but Harry had been used to centaurs, and he was in no hurry. He discovered underwater a kind of patience he had never had before.

At first, the merfolk resented his encroachment on their territory. Harry tried to show them that he meant no harm and, gradually, they grew to tolerate him, if not welcome him. Sometimes they spoke to him. Harry still did not understand them, but their mocking expressions were so reminiscent of Malfoy that Harry got along with them rather well.

"I resent comparison to fish people," Malfoy said later, when Harry told him this.

By then Harry had learned some Mermish. Most of the merfolk were still rather cool toward him, but they also seemed quite interested. "They do have fun laughing at me," Harry said, "and tell me my hair manages to look bad even underwater, where everyone's sticks up."

"I must meet these wonderful creatures. It's obvious they have incredible intellect and superior taste."

The merfolk had many strange customs, an entire culture that had flourished unnoticed for six years under his nose, but eventually Harry began to understand this foreign culture, to respect it.

He spent long hours under the lake, learning the trident games the merfolk played, discovering the secrets of giant squid, hearing rumors of buried treasure and eating kelp and trout tossed salad. He had never been much for learning out of books, but this practice of learning by experience suited him entirely. And, in time, the merfolk began to respect him back.

"They're scaly," Malfoy said, emerging from the lake drenched. "They're scaly and they're fishy and they laugh too much, and their seaweed salad is dreadful."

"You just don't like them because they laughed at you."

"Points to Gryffindor for your keen powers of observation." Malfoy was slogging up to shore. Once there, he found his wand and cast a drying spell on himself. "Did you figure that out on your own? Or did they reveal it some time when they were babbling at you in fishese?"

"I told you they didn't like strangers."

"Yes. But I am me, and the people of Mer and me share a natural affinity." Malfoy had insisted on keeping his shirt on and now, though it was dry, it was ruined. "Ugh. Pond scum." He tried to brush off the algae caked on the material, frowning at Harry. "We both suffer putting up with you."

Harry laughed and splashed him.

For several moments, Malfoy stood there, his mouth open, looking pitifully wet and miserable. "Oh, no you don't." He crashed back into the water, hands outstretched, lunging for Harry's neck.

Harry laughed again and dunked him.

Malfoy reached for him again, thrashing, and tried to hold his head underwater, but he was too angry to really be effective. Harry kept laughing.

"I hate you," Malfoy said, sitting in the muck in the shallow water. "I really hate you. I've always hated you. I want you to know it was I who sent you the singing Valentine in second year."

Harry trudged up out of the water. He'd taken his shirt off before he went in, and reached for it blindly in the pile of clothing. His hands closed on clean, dry cloth and he brought it up to get the excess water out of his hair. "Why were you sending me Valentines if you hate me so much?"

Malfoy was looking at him furiously. "It was to _humiliate_ you, Potter, and what are you doing with my robes?"

Harry looked down at the cloth in his hands. Then he found his glasses and looked down at the cloth in his hands again. Then he looked at Malfoy and smirked. "What?" he asked. "Drying my hair. Hope that's okay. I mean, you obviously want to spend more time down there in the water, but some of us would rather stay up here and try to get dry."

"I—you . . ." Eventually Malfoy stood up, frowning deeply as he waded again up to shore. He snatched the robes from Harry's hands. He cast a drying spell, then a cleaning spell. He looked down again at his shirt, but some of that stuff wasn't coming off without more serious care.

"If you weren't so modest," Harry said, "your shirt would be clean."

"If you weren't such a lumbering troll, my robes would be clean," Malfoy snapped.

"You can wear my robes," Harry offered.

"I don't want your robes," Malfoy said, but took them anyway.

Harry watched him put them on. Then his hand stretched out without him really thinking about it, without thinking about how he'd never really touched him.

He thought about it, though, when Malfoy jerked away.

"Here," Harry said quietly, and moved closer. Malfoy—pale and wet, everything sticking to him and looking like a drowned rodent—was very tense. "You've got . . . seaweed," Harry explained. He reached again and Malfoy let him, and Harry pulled the seaweed out of Malfoy's hair.

Malfoy made a face. "I'm never going to be clean again. Why do you do this?"

Harry shrugged. "I wanted to learn Mermish. Why did you?"

"What?"

"You didn't have to come."

Malfoy's frown turned frightful. "You said I should meet them and they'd get used to me and I would have lots of fun."

Harry winced. "I—I'm sorry."

Giving a noisy sigh, Malfoy said, "Don't go all guilty and brooding and tragic. No one wants you to run off again and hole yourself up in a hovel just because you absolutely ruined everything. Besides," Malfoy went on, pulling on his clean shoes and socks. "They were kind of neat."

"Oh," Harry said. "They are, aren't they? With the creepy singing. And the trident stuff."

"Don't go getting excited, Potter. You still ruined everything."

* * *

After that, Harry learned Gobbledegook.

"What is it with you and magical creatures?" Malfoy asked.

Harry hadn't thought about it that way. He'd been thinking instead that he should apologize, somehow, for breaking into Gringotts. After all, the goblins had been neutral during the war. Goblins didn't understand apologies, as it turned out, but they did understand work as a form of remuneration.

"You just want my job," Malfoy said gleefully. "Glory hound."

"You handle the politics," Harry said. "Contract negotiations and legislation and things." Harry shrugged. "I'm just the human interest guy."

"You mean the goblin interest guy. Hey, is fancying both witches and wizards sort of a gateway to fancying an even more diverse range of magical beings? Goblins do have those ears, you know."

While Malfoy didn't seem like he was against the idea of bisexuality deep down, he did say horribly offensive things from time to time. Harry wasn't offended. Occasionally, it occurred to him that Malfoy brought up the sexuality thing rather more often than he really had to, but he didn't really think about it much more than that.

Harry eventually got a job as an assistant in code-breaking, which was fun, since he occasionally exchanged correspondence with Bill Weasley. He also got to be on good terms with a goblin couple who invited him for brunch sometimes. Goblins, Harry learned, were very keen on brunch.

Harry thought he might stay on six months or so at Gringotts, and was already considering what to do next. He liked not being tied down to any one thing.

"Commitment phobic," Malfoy said, in a horribly self-satisfied tone.

Harry was thinking of going to Romania next to work for Charlie.

"I suppose you'll be working for One-Eared Weasley next," Malfoy grumped. He had finally convinced Harry to go flat-hunting. They were stood alone in the main room of a flat above a shop, while the woman who was showing them round let a couple in downstairs.

"Maybe," Harry said, looking out the window at Diagon Alley. "It would be interesting to know something about owning a business," Harry added.

"Fine," Malfoy said. "But you can't go to _Romania_."

Harry looked at Malfoy, startled. "Why not?"

"It's too—" Malfoy broke off, looking startled himself. "There are too many vampires there. You'll come back too pale and pasty and if you can't go out in the sunlight, how will Thomas and Smith and I make you eat dust at Quidditch?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, there're vampires. Not to mention _dragons_. And you'll never make me eat dust at Quidditch."

"Just you wait, Potter. You'll get what's coming."

"You always say that and then I never get anything."

A familiar glint appeared in Malfoy's eye. Harry was convinced it had something to do with mania and possibly acute schizophrenia. "So," Malfoy said amiably, much too amiably to be innocent, "you're moving out of your hermitage and into London-town, where all the world is happening. Curse-breaking, romps in Romania with the fittest Weasley, internment and torture under a Middle Weasley. Looks like you've got your career all planned out."

Harry sorted through this speech to see if he was being insulted anywhere in it. "You think Charlie is fit?" was what he came up with.

"There's only one thing you're missing in your life," Malfoy continued imperiously, ignoring him. "A dream, a wish your heart has made: the love, eternal devotion and marriage vows of one Gorgeous Gilderoy."

Harry grunted. "I wish you would stop calling him that."

"Don't be ashamed," Malfoy advised him. "Half of Hogwarts fancied him. Make that half plus one, seeing as we need to add you to the female population of our revered Alma Mater."

"You bring him up so much, I'm beginning to think you had a crush on him yourself."

Malfoy drew himself up with dignity. "I was engaged in a torrid affair with Pansy at the time."

"You were twelve at the time."

"Malfoys mature early. I was a very charming twelve-year-old, if you'll recall." At Harry's look, Malfoy shrugged. His lips twitched. "At any rate I had little time to poof about fancying professors."

"But time enough to send me a Valentine," Harry pointed out.

"I was also engaged in a formidable battle of wit and cunning, possibly to the death, with my most unfairly exalted and kind of crazy foe, if you will also recall."

"I don't remember that. Must've been killing a basilisk at the time."

"Don't feign ignorance. We were bitter enemies and rivals."

"Come to think of it, sometimes there was this annoying buzzing in my ear."

Malfoy jabbed a finger at him, somehow wildly missing his shoulder and managing to poke his ear. "You threatened me! In _snake_."

"What?"

"Have I ever mentioned how off-putting all that hissing was? It almost made me give up on you completely as a worthy opponent. Not that you ever were. Besides, it's just plain revolting; imagine having an enemy insensate enough to have a speech impediment. Nemesssisss just doesn't sound the same, you know?"

Somewhere during this tirade, Harry had stopped listening. "Malfoy, you idiot, I was talking to the snake, not you."

"Maybe we all should've left you two alone. First goblins, now snakes. Harry, you bring shame on me." Strangely, shame on Malfoy looked rather like pleasure.

"Anyway, it was Justin Finch-Fletchley everyone thought I was trying to threaten."

Shame suddenly looked displeased. "Well maybe I should just leave you alone with Justin Finch-Fletchley."

"Er, no."

"Not your type," Malfoy suggested. "Doesn't play Quidditch."

"What?"

"Pay attention, Potter. You have a type and it's Quidditch-obsessed. Take Chang and the icklest Weasley. Come to think of it, both of them were Seekers. Do you have a Seeker kink or does any position suit you?"

"Er. Position?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't be vulgar. It's—well, vulgar. I'm just clearing your name a bit, here. If you never had a thing for Keepers, for instance . . . I can Scourgify my brain of all the hideous, insidious suspicions I've had, since learning you're a poof, that you've got a thing for the Weasel."

Harry didn't say anything.

If he had thought about it, he would have expected Malfoy to grow horrified. Instead, Malfoy looked out the window, and said much more quietly, "Have you got a thing for Ronald Weasley, Potter?"

"No."

Malfoy kept his back turned. "Don't sound so sure of yourself," he said. Harry knew Malfoy meant the comment to be mocking, but he'd gone wrong again and instead it sounded soft.

Harry looked at the line of Malfoy's neck. He didn't want to tell Malfoy about the way he sometimes thought of his friends, even when he didn't mean to, even when it wasn't what he wanted. Malfoy had never really understood the monster, and Harry didn't want to explain it now that he had it locked away, and the claws inside his chest so rarely tried to rip themselves free.

So instead he said, "I don't want Ron, Malfoy."

Malfoy lifted his nose. "Good."

Harry tried to smile. "Don't want me to suffer from unrequited love?"

"After Lockhart, I'm not sure you could withstand the heartbreak."

Harry shook his head. "You're insane, you know that?"

"You admire insanity. Thus your fatal attraction to our darling lunatic, Gilderoy, and his gorgeous hair." Malfoy's nose wrinkled.

"Oh yeah," Harry said. "I completely go for blonds."

"Do you?"

Harry was going to go on being sarcastic when he saw that Malfoy was looking away, very earnestly pretending not to care.

Harry felt his blood thrum; it was a drum which could wake the monster. "Malfoy," he said, very carefully. "Are you—"

Malfoy gave a fluid shrug. "Someone has to help you with your love life. Else you'll go on determined to martyr your sexuality in a noble self-sacrificial effort to save us all, and then where would we be? They'd probably start a religion after you, just like that Christian fellow the Muggles love, the one with well-defined abdominal muscles."

"Malfoy," Harry said, after a startled moment. "You just said Jesus has nice abs."

"He's always hanging about in a loincloth. How could anyone fail to notice?"

"On the _cross_. You are utterly . . ."

"Clever? Witty? Possessed of nice abs?"

Harry frowned. After a moment he said, "I'm not martyring my sexuality, or whatever you said."

The lightness had gone out of Malfoy's eyes and voice. "Don't give me that. Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. Well, actually, I don't, because it's you, and who can fathom your brain?" Malfoy paused dramatically. "But anyway, don't think I don't know that you promised yourself if you could never have Mrs. Weasley-Thomas you were never going to have anyone at all."

"It's not like that."

"You think you're too good, or too bad. Pick one, it's all the same; you think you're too _special_ to have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or goblinfriend, Harry, you deviant. You think it's all about you."

"I rather think my love life is about me, thanks."

Malfoy flapped a dismissive hand. "Precisely. You think that anyone cares? You think you're making some big sacrifice? You're only punishing yourself."

"You seem to care."

Malfoy stopped flapping and suddenly grabbed Harry's arm. "I don't like stupidity," he hissed.

"Shut up," Harry said, trying to pull his arm away. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are." Malfoy's fingers dug in deep, knuckles going white. His lips were the same color. "Merlin knows how I got into this, saving you from yourself."

Harry didn't try to pull away again. "Okay. I get it. You're just trying to be a friend."

Malfoy looked surprised, and dropped his arm. "Well . . . yes. But don't tell Granger," he added, looking around as though Hermione might jump out from a cupboard. "She has an unbecoming propensity to gloat when she feels she's been proven right."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **This touches on a mental disorder.

Thank you to fat_teaspoon and lusiology for looking this over.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Harry kept Chimera Downs.

He liked the security of knowing that it was still his. He could go to it whenever he chose. There was still an escape. Harry didn't plan on using it, and he liked that too.

He still owned Grimmauld Place as well, but he was never going to live there. Instead, Harry had rented out a flat Malfoy had helped him find in Cantcomp Lane, another wizarding district of London—more residential than Diagon Alley, and rather less busy. The address was 92, and his flat was number five.

As Harry unpacked the boxes in his new flat, Malfoy lolled about on a worn sofa, watching him. Hermione and Ron and George had helped him move; now it was mostly a matter of getting settled in. Ron had said he'd come over again to help unpack more boxes, and Hermione had fretted about being there because she feared the men's taste in decorating, but then the baby had developed colic.

So it was just he and Malfoy unpacking: Harry doing all the unpacking, and Malfoy doing all the watching him and occasionally whinging. Harry brought up the conversation they'd had that day flat hunting, something along the lines of Malfoy thinking he could help Harry with his love life.

Malfoy looked appalled. "I said someone needs to help you. Certainly not me."

Harry snorted. "Just like you helped me look for a flat?"

Malfoy turned his nose up. "Please note: I never come to help you. I come to mock you."

Harry shook his head. "You really do, don't you."

"Malfoys always do exactly what they intend. Even your tiny powers of observation should've discovered that."

Harry didn't say anything about Lucius. "You know," he said, dumping a load of his Quidditch equipment into a cupboard, "you're not one to talk. It's not like you've got a girlfriend, either."

"What makes you so sure I like girls?"

Harry turned to look at him, surprised. "I thought you fancied Hermione."

"Well." Malfoy waved a hand about in a derisive manner. "Of course I didn't. She's a Muggleborn, and I'm a Malfoy, and—" He paused thoughtfully, tilting his head. "And obviously our mad, wild monkey passion was doomed from the start."

"Um. Monkeys? I'd really rather not think about Hermione and—"

"Yes." Malfoy nodded enthusiastically. "And so, to preserve ourselves, and a doomed—doomed!—passion for which the world was not ready, we had to bury our love, bank our consuming passion—primate passion. She had to marry a brainless boor just to significantly cover it up and I had to have many threesomes with beautiful, beautiful Scandanavian blondes, and once a Veela, and anyway a long line of desirable and devoted love-slaves."

"Oh." Harry went back to sorting through the box that had had his Quidditch gear. "Where are you keeping the love-slaves, again?"

"I'm still working on that part."

"Right." Harry pulled out some pictures from Hogwarts and a couple of old books. "And there was Parkinson."

"If you ever accuse Pansy of being a part of anyone's harem but mine I will use your ears for tiny teacups."

"Well, she is married to Goyle."

"Tiny teacups, Potter."

"Anyway, I meant, you like girls, because you went out with Parkinson."

"So? You went out with Chang."

"Yeah. Um, so, are you?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Am I what?" Harry rolled his eyes and Malfoy said, "No. I'm not; I . . . You just—you shouldn't assume, you know."

* * *

Later, Malfoy said, "At least, I don't think so."

"You don't think this is where it should go?" Harry looked down at the pine chest he'd just pushed into place. Instead of moving it with spells, Harry had been pushing it around. He liked the idea of arranging his new flat by the force of his own body, rather than the force of his magic. The place felt more real that way, and he had to think less of fields.

Malfoy no doubt disapproved. He was disdainful of physical labor when the same work could be accomplished by wand. No doubt he disdained of sweat, also. It was beaded on Harry's brow, and he'd stripped down to the t-shirt under his jumper. The chest was heavy, and Harry wasn't looking forward to moving it again.

Malfoy had been sitting on the couch the whole time watching. "It works terribly there," he said, "you can't put your feet on it from this couch, and I don't think I'm gay."

Harry almost dropped the lamp he'd been thinking about putting on the chest. "I'm not moving this again just because it's not convenient to where you happen to be sitting."

"Suit yourself. Even though yourself is infinitely less design conscious than myself."

Harry sat down on the chest and looked at Malfoy. "So, how come you don't know for sure?"

"How am I supposed to?" Malfoy said, irritated.

Harry shrugged. "You're twenty-five."

"I'm well aware of my age, thank you. I . . ." At some point before he'd told him to move the chest, Malfoy had stopped lolling about on the couch in a lounge-like fashion. His legs were pulled up on the couch in front of him, his arms around them. He looked stiff, like a folded paper gargoyle defending some position. "It's not like I've ever done it."

"Done what?"

"A bloke. Keep up."

Harry shrugged again. "Maybe you should try it."

Malfoy glared. "And who am I supposed to try it with?"

"Just—" Harry had been going to say, "do what I did," but then, he didn't ever want anyone to do the things he had done, and certainly not Malfoy.

Harry hadn't turned to men because he thought that he might like them; he had done it because he thought he wouldn't. He had hated himself for the way he had treated Ginny. She had loved him to the point of forgiving things she shouldn't. In the end, that was why he had had to leave, but he hated himself for leaving her, too. He hated the pain that it caused her, but even more than that, he hated that he could not have her.

He had defeated Voldemort. He had saved the world. He deserved some measure of happiness in return. Maybe he deserved Ginny. Maybe he even deserved to treat her the way he had . . . .

Harry had left because he had been disgusted with himself. He hated thing things he thought about Ginny. He hated the things he thought about his friends. He hated his desires. Instead of seeking to destroy said desire, he had sought to sate them in ways that disgusted even himself. He had been seeking punishment.

He had found prostitutes easily enough. When he encountered his first rentboy, he realized he did not care about gender or sex. He wanted not to care about anything at all, and he found oblivion just as easily in men as women.

"You're a lot of help," Draco said.

"I don't know," Harry said, his voice rough.

"Well, I can see that." Malfoy was trying to sound mocking, but instead he was coming out gentle. Malfoy was always making mistakes like that. "So, it's not like I have anyone to try it out on, because the only one I know who's a poof is you." He paused.

Harry didn't say anything, and then Malfoy blithely continued, as though the pause had never happened. "And certainly that's not on. One does not experiment on—on friends."

Harry stood up and took a step toward Malfoy. Malfoy's gray eyes flickered again, and suddenly, Harry remembered several weeks before, when he'd really first noticed Malfoy's preternatural interest in his love life. He remembered almost half a year ago now, Malfoy shredding grass while asking him if he was really gay, and Harry saw now that that had been nervousness.

Taking another step forward, Harry saw that this was nervousness now. It was also confusion and curiosity, and—something—

Harry could show him.

But then Harry thought of what he could show him, the only things he could show. He did not want Malfoy to learn the way he had learned, nor did he want to use Malfoy in that way. He couldn't do that to Malfoy. He couldn't do that to anyone he cared about; he couldn't do that to anyone ever again.

"You're right," Harry said, carefully and without expression. "I should move the chest."

Malfoy looked away.

Bracing his legs, Harry started on moving the chest across the floor, pushing it in increments.

"I've only just remembered," Malfoy said, "I've got a haircut. And data entry for that centaur contract. And tea. I've got tea, except I haven't got any, so I've got to go to the shop, and—I've a very busy day."

"You can go."

There was a little pause, which almost made Harry look. But he couldn't look; he couldn't. If he looked he wouldn't see the field; he would see Malfoy, Malfoy and the way he usually was so smug, but Harry was sure somehow that he would not be smug now. He would be uncertain, and Harry was certain he couldn't take uncertainty. So he kept on moving the chest.

"Your flat," Malfoy said, and didn't finish.

"It's okay," said Harry. "You weren't helping anyway."

"Ah." There was a short silence. "I'll be going then."

Then Malfoy was gone, and Harry slumped against the chest.

He had got a job, just like Malfoy had said. He had got a flat, just like Malfoy had said.

He didn't want the flat. He didn't want to think about where to put the chest. He didn't want to think about his failed relationships, the things he had done with men and women after Ginny. He didn't want to think of Malfoy, either. Harry never had been sure why Malfoy showed up at Chimera Downs. Whatever he had been looking for, he deserved better than anything Harry could have given him.

Feeling like something was trying to claw its way out of him that could destroy his new flat, destroy his careful routines and efforts and relationships with friends, destroy this new life he had built, Harry thought of the field.

The slope rolled down like the shoulders of a giant, slumped and laid down like moving was too much effort. The grass across the giant's back was very green, and stirred slightly in a light breeze. Other things were sleeping, but insects hummed in lazy heat. There was no road, and Draco Malfoy was coming down. Down and down and down . . . .

* * *

Harry kept that thought of the field. He kept it so he could keep the people he loved safe, so he could keep Malfoy safe. He kept it the next time he saw Malfoy, and was thinking of it as he half sat, half leaned against Malfoy's desk at work while Malfoy was saying something about his centaur rights bill.

Harry was only half-listening, distracted by Malfoy's hands, the way the wrists were slender and strong, the fingers long and thin. Those fingers moved amongst the papers deftly, with agitation. Then when Malfoy got really into the conversation, the hands occupied themselves with taking a quill apart and putting it back together, the work more small and delicate than Harry's fingers could have done.

There were ink stains on them now, blots black and dirty on pale skin, and Harry didn't want Malfoy to wash them off.

"Why don't you have a girlfriend?" Harry said abruptly.

"Excuse me?" Malfoy's voice was sharp. The fingers hovered for a moment over the quill, then set it down and got rigorously scrubbed clean on one of Malfoy's napkins.

"A girlfriend. We were talking about it last week. Or a boyfriend."

"Will you shut up?" Malfoy quickly looked around. Most people had called it quits for the night, but there were still stragglers in the office.

"You don't want anyone to know?"

Malfoy frowned. "No. I don't care." He clicked his tongue. "Look here, Potter. My sexuality is my own business."

"You said before you couldn't find out on your own. You said that you would need a bloke."

"Well, it wouldn't be anyone from the office!" Malfoy looked around again and lowered his voice. "Anyway that wouldn't be convenient, sleeping with someone I work with."

"It would be very convenient. You wouldn't have to go far."

Malfoy was peevish. "I only said I didn't know if I like wizards because I've never _tried_ it. I was trying to be _open_. I was trying to . . . to let you know you're not special because of _that_, either."

"You thought you might be gay, just for my sake?"

"God." Malfoy covered his face with a hand. "Don't you even listen to yourself?"

"Sometimes." Harry smirked.

There was ink on Malfoy's hand, very stark against his skin, all sharp shadows and circles under his eyes.

Harry watched him. "Why don't you have a girlfriend?"

Malfoy took his hand away from his face and sat there for a while moodily. "In case you hadn't noticed, most of the wizarding world thinks people like me are pariahs. As for people like me . . . ."

"You were attracted to Parkinson."

Malfoy glared. "She's married. To one of my oldest friends, ye of selective amnesia."

"You said the other day, about her being a part of your—"

"She's _married_. Maybe that doesn't stop Gryffindors? Maybe, them being so dim, the only thing they see standing in their way is a husband's wrath, and they're brave enough to chance that, after all. Maybe you and—"

"Don't," Harry said, because when Malfoy was angry he lashed out. Malfoy didn't hurt Harry often, but he could mention Ginny, and that would.

Malfoy didn't mention Ginny. "Anyway. Pansy isn't dead. Goyle isn't dead. Thank you, Potter, for pointing out the two people I cared for who actually survived. It was so much help. Without you, I certainly wouldn't have figured it out. Without you—"

Harry reached over and brushed his thumb across Malfoy's cheek.

Malfoy stopped and stared.

"You had a smudge," Harry said, gesturing at his own face.

Malfoy still looked blank.

"From the the ink. Here." Harry handed Malfoy another paper napkin.

Malfoy wiped his cheekbone. "Is it—?"

"Yes." Harry shifted his weight on Malfoy's desk. "You could always meet new people." When Malfoy continued to look blank, he said, "You could date."

"Fabulous. Thanks for the advice." The words were sarcastic, but no longer vindictive. He just sounded tired and bitter.

"Why not?"

"This is why not, Potter, and it's not coming off with a napkin." Malfoy was suddenly jerking up his sleeve, thrusting his arm under Harry's nose.

Harry looked down at Malfoy's arm.

Malfoy tried to pull his sleeve back down. Before he could, Harry grabbed his wrist. "This," he said, and stared down.

Malfoy's arm was milky white, the veins blue beneath clear skin. Malfoy was neither particularly muscular nor strong, but he also was very slim, and Harry could also see the cords of tendons, the shape of muscle. It could have been beautiful, and the effect of it was ruined by the shape of the Mark, hideous, red and twining, churning up that otherwise so flawless flesh. It was heinous, willing destruction, just as all the Death Eaters had been.

Harry couldn't stop looking at it.

"This," he said again, his voice rough.

Malfoy tried to pull away again, and Harry let him go.

For the first time since Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, the first time in a long time, it occurred to Harry that he could be the strong one. "That isn't who you are," he said.

Malfoy yanked his sleeve down. "What would you know about it?"

Harry remembered the field. "My scar isn't who I am."

"Come off it. You're the Chosen One. Savior of the wizarding world. Boy Who Lived. Witch Weekly's Number—" "

Harry's fingers curled in on themselves. "You said I was just a man."

"Because you seem to think you're some super-wizard alien from Mars, who can't live among mortals. When really you're just a scarhead with bad hair."

"Yeah. And you're just a snot with an ugly arm." Malfoy scowled and hugged his arm to himself. Instinctively Harry reached to touch it, but did not.

"You told me I was a man," Harry said. "Then you told me I had to act like one. Sorry, but you do too. You have to move forward. You have to reach for what you want."

Malfoy looked away. His sleeve was still loose. "Maybe I can't have what I want."

Harry took his arm. "Because of this?"

Malfoy frowned. "Maybe I don't know what I want."

"Then you have to try," Harry said, still holding Malfoy's arm. "It's what you told me. It's what I've been doing. I'm not thinking about the past. I'm not thinking about the future. I'm just trying to do what feels—"

Harry stopped because Malfoy did move forward, and then Malfoy's lips were brushing the corner of Harry's mouth, hesitantly, barely a whisper of a touch. Malfoy pulled back, and he was close enough Harry could actually see his eyes widen, see the skin at the corners stretch out. The pupils were flicking rapidly over Harry's face, as if reading a reaction.

Then he pulled back farther, and said, "There was a smudge."

Harry didn't move. Malfoy started to pull away, and Harry instinctively tightened his grip. His eyes dropped from Malfoy's eyes to Malfoy's lips, and Harry caught his breath.

"Malfoy," Harry said hoarsely, and leaned in.

Harry had forgotten the field by then. He had forgotten about being the strong one.

He was only thinking getting it again, that warm soft press of lips, _reach for what you want_, he had told Malfoy, and Malfoy had. Harry kissed him, tasted Malfoy's hesitation, tasted Malfoy make a sound, melt under him. Malfoy's hands went up to hold him, Malfoy's mouth open under him, and Harry went deeper.

Malfoy was so warm; Harry had missed this. It felt so good, it felt so willing, another person's body, another person's heart, someone else to hold him, and take it all away.

Harry wasn't sure how Malfoy got up against the wall that formed one side of his cubical. He didn't know how he got to be standing between Malfoy's legs, holding him so Malfoy could hardly move. Malfoy was alive in his grasp, warm and gasping, saying incoherent things. His heart was beating hard enough for Harry to feel it.

Harry wasn't sure, but he thought he was no longer kissing him. This was something else, with teeth and tongue and hard hands holding down. Harry was crawling inside his mouth until he didn't know what the rest of the world felt like. He had been trying so hard to live again that he had forgotten how much he hated his own skin, but Harry remembered now.

The monster had never liked it there.

Malfoy's arms were around his neck; Malfoy's narrow hips pressed into his as Harry committed lewd, disgraceful acts inside Malfoy's mouth. He pulled away, turning Malfoy's face, opening access to the jaw, the neck, where he sucked and scraped his teeth until Malfoy said, "You're," then began again, "You'll leave a bruise."

Harry wanted it to bruise. The clawing in his chest raged outward, tearing through his throat, right out of his mouth and down to ruin Malfoy's perfect skin, to call up the blood beneath. He felt alive. He felt full of _joy_, filthy and full and leaping high, letting this leashed and coiled power loose to wrap around Malfoy, to take him and make him his. This, all of this was his: Malfoy's body, Malfoy's throaty, rough sounds of need, that low spot of warmth, that raw tenderness that Harry felt whenever he thought of Draco Malfoy; Harry wanted to _mark_—

Harry pushed him away.

Malfoy panted, his eyes blown almost black, as though he'd been drugged or drained of blood. He moved like that, as though on the verge of crash; blindly he reached out.

"I'm sorry," Harry said. Then he went away, before he did anything much worse.

* * *

Harry went to Chimera Downs.

He looked at the cottage the way Malfoy must have looked at the cottage, having just come down the slope: a peaceful, innocent little place. A man could have everything he needed there. He would never have to leave.

Using wand and words, Harry pulled it down. He could feel it fall apart beneath the magic coiling inside him, the monster large and awake and clawing out of his throat. He did not even need his wand; merely his hands, his voice, could destroy it all. The monster could wreak havoc. The monster could end it all.

It had only been a kiss, but in some ways it was the closest Harry had been to another person in two and a half years, and all of the sudden he remembered he could hurt them. Once only love and jealousy had brought the monster with it, but as things had devolved with Ginny, with the Aurors, even with his friends, hate and despair and desire brought it too.

He could get a flat. He could get a job. Harry could be with his friends, but things like kissing—intimacy, they felt like too much.

The cottage came down, and the fence. The sycamore cracked in half, and Harry was on his knees. The broken cottage was shaking; the stumps were shaking; the ground was shaking. Harry's eyes were hot and he thought that they were most likely red. The rest of his body had no blood, and all the world was cold.

He felt free. He felt unfettered. He felt full of joy, and felt the world could fall to him. Then he saw the field.

There it was still. The grass was still green for the end of summer. It was the color Harry's eyes used to be, as green as Aveda Kedavra and growing things. The stalks swayed gently with the shaking of the ground, just as though within a breeze. The sky was blue and blue and blue. It went on forever.

Harry gasped and closed his eyes, Draco Malfoy came strolling down the rise, his posture relaxed and easy, his hair tinted in the waning light. His lips twitched the way they did before a smile, and his hands were long and slender by his sides. He didn't seem to know or care what Harry was, the color of his eyes. He just kept coming down to him, coming down.

Harry gasped, and gasped again, and slowly caught his breath. When he opened his eyes, the field still was green, and the sky had opened up to show bright stars. Grass moved gently in the breeze. Dark was coming on.

There was no road, Harry realized. His cottage was in ruins, the grounds in ruins, but the field still was there, and there was no road.

Slowly, Harry stood again. He had started rebuilding the moment Draco Malfoy first came down that slope.

Time to start again.

* * *

When Harry knocked at the door of Malfoy's flat the next day, Malfoy opened the door and stared at him. When Malfoy kept staring like that and didn't say anything, Harry said, "Um, how are you?"

Malfoy said, "Good, I'm fine," and waited.

"I . . . I wanted to see you."

"Right, that's fine." Malfoy left the door open and went into his flat.

It was actually the first time Harry had been in Malfoy's flat. Sometimes he'd dropped by to see if Malfoy wanted to go down to the pub or play Quidditch or see a film, but inevitably Malfoy had immediately come out to the pub or played Quidditch or seen a film, instead of inviting him inside. Harry thought that maybe since most of the Malfoy fortune and all of its properties had gotten seized, Malfoy was embarrassed because the flat really wasn't much to look at.

It wasn't, Harry supposed. The walls were thin, the wood floor scratched. The cupboards looked like the kind that would stick. Nothing was neat; there was detritus of Malfoy everywhere. Piles of parchment were rolling themselves in scrolls in the corner; there were socks folding themselves. Portraits hung haphazardly, and one was Lucius Malfoy, who frowned sternly at Harry and walked out of the frame. The hat rack looked like it might be violent.

Harry could begin to understand why Malfoy got soppy over Molly Weasley. Harry should have known; Malfoy's desk was like this on a smaller scale. There were always strange odds and ends on it—a stuffed hedgehog, a lantern, a ceramic vessel that looked like birch, a license plate. These things always looked haphazard among stacks and stacks of papers, assorted scrolls, and documents bundled with brown string. Malfoy always claimed he had everything in order, and slapped at Harry when Harry moved things.

"I'm surprised to see you," Malfoy said, after several moments of staring at Harry staring at his flat.

"Why?" Harry turned to face him, rather hoping Malfoy would suggest they simply forget yesterday. He thought that he could do this if only Malfoy would.

"Admittedly it wasn't a trait of yours at Hogwarts, but ever since the Dark Lord died you've become quite talented at running off and hiding when you can't handle something."

"I did run off." Harry took a step towards him. Malfoy looked like he wanted to take a step back, but didn't. "May I see?"

"What?"

"Your . . ." Harry touched his own neck.

"Don't be ridiculous." Malfoy jerked his collar, exposing a clean expanse of pale throat. "We are wizards, as you so often seem to forget."

"I'm sorry," Harry said.

"I kissed you first."

"I still . . . treated you badly."

"Do you mean because you ran away, or because you pushed me up against a wall?"

"Both."

Malfoy moved away, his face in profile. "I knew you were going to be like this. I'm not an idiot, alright?"

"I know you're not."

"No, you don't. And I should hate you for that, but instead I forgive you, because you're too dumb to even know when you're being dumb for thinking other people are dumb. You can't help you're a Gryffindor."

Harry's lips twisted. "Thanks for that."

"I kissed you first." Malfoy held up a hand as if Harry was going to protest again, which Harry was. "I told you I'd been thinking about . . . blokes like that, and I told you you were the only one I knew who . . . felt like that, I _told_ you I wanted to try it."

Harry felt like he could have been knocked over by a feather. "Maybe you're completely terrible at propositioning someone. What kind of come on was that?"

"The sexy kind?"

There was silence. They looked at each other. "Well, you're here; do you want a drink?" Malfoy said, shifting uncomfortably.

"Do you have pumpkin juice?" Harry asked, and followed Malfoy into the kitchen.

"I have . . . um. Ketchup. I'll make some hot chocolate, hold on."

"Okay." Harry sat down at his breakfast table.

"I didn't find out." Malfoy fussed with the cocoa.

"Find out what?" Harry was distracted by the fact Malfoy's table top was Formica. Formica seemed so Muggle.

Malfoy fussed with the milk next. "I didn't find out whether I was gay. Yet."

"Yet?" The Formica abruptly took back seat.

"I still don't know, do I? It was just a kiss. And you messed that one up." Malfoy sounded like he was talking about the weather. "I was surprised, and you—" Harry had marked him, but Malfoy didn't say it.

Ginny had liked the marks, sometimes, had even liked it when Harry got rough. People after her had liked it too. But there was a line between some kinds of possessive behavior and . . . other kinds, Harry knew. And Harry knew he was over the line, even if others didn't know it.

Harry didn't know whether Malfoy knew. Malfoy had never seemed to care much what Harry's problems were at Chimera Downs. Harry didn't know if Malfoy had liked it when Harry got rough or not, and he didn't plan on finding out.

"Look," Malfoy saidd, "I didn't mean to . . . I hadn't planned on—on doing that. Kissing you, I mean," he said, as though forcing himself to say it. "It was just—you said—I wanted to . . ."

"You said you propositioned me before."

"I was curious. I . . . you said I was supposed to try."

Harry understood that. He thought that it was good. Malfoy was trying to get things sorted, and that was—that was good. He wasn't going about finding out if he was interested in men the way that Harry had, and that was good, too. But this—what Malfoy was doing—was new, and fragile. He needed someone who could show him . . . gentleness, and experience also. Someone who could help him. Someone who wasn't Harry.

Harry realized this with sudden firmness. Malfoy was his friend, and he didn't want to ruin that, just because of—of the monster in his chest. Because of the things that darkness wanted, and the way that Malfoy had tasted under him.

"I can't," Harry said.

"I know." Malfoy walked back to fill his own mug. "I already knew that. I mean, I had decided against it. I told you that. It—it was an accident, purely circumstantial, you know how it is, when you can't help—" Malfoy broke off abruptly, and clattered the kettle back on the cooker. "Don't think I was pinning every hope of experimentation I had on you."

"Thank you."

Harry drank the chocolate. Then he sighed and stood up, heading for the whipped cream. Malfoy clung to the kettle as if it would protect him.

"There are other reasons it wouldn't be a good idea," Harry said, standing beside Malfoy now.

Malfoy snorted. "Of course. There's always the possibility you'll say, 'I'm sorry' and run away."

"About that, I already said—"

"That you were sorry?" Malfoy snorted again. Then he registered the expression on Harry's face, and sighed. Looking away, he scrubbed his face. "It's alright. I get it."

"Maybe you don't."

"Don't I? Let me guess. You hied to your hermitage, and threw things around. Or unrooted tree stumps and held a little light show. Then your own penchant for drama wore you out; you cried a lot and put all the tree stumps back, and thought about how you were just too sad and savior-of-the-worldish too ever love anyone or touch anyone or need anyone or desire me. Something about how you're special, and making a sacrifice, saving the world just by not screwing around, because heaven help you if you _did_ screw around, there would be tree stumps everywhere. Am I warm?"

Harry looked down into his cup. "I guess. Warm as you ever are."

Malfoy put his mug down, turned around and faced him. "I thought you—I thought you might not come back. I thought I might not see you again, that—that you were going to be a real prat about everything. I thought I wouldn't see you again."

Harry looked up. "You're my friend."

The line appeared beside Malfoy's mouth. "Well, it's true that we are dire rivals under temporary truce, as circumstance dictates. We are—"

Harry grabbed his wrist. Malfoy's eyes widened again. "Don't joke right now. We're friends. You told me to act like a man, and I'm trying."

Malfoy's eyes proceeded to get larger. For the first time, Harry noticed the gray was circled at the edges by narrow rings of blue. "Harry, you—" Malfoy began. "You." Malfoy licked his lips.

Harry dropped his wrist.

"You should learn to control your grabby hands."

"Yes," Harry said, because it was all about control. If he could learn it, master it enough, he could do this. He could touch and it would not be dangerous. He could have what Malfoy was talking about, maybe even something more, either with Malfoy or someone else he came to care about. He could do it. He just had to be in control first.

He somehow had to explain. "Malfoy," he began.

"No." Malfoy looked away again. "I already know what you're going to say. And I already said it's fine."

"But if you want—"

Malfoy squared his shoulders in that heartbreaking way he had, and turned to face Harry as though to face an assault. "Let me put this in a language you can understand." His voice was very crisp, the way it got when he decided crazy things. "I do not resent you for not wanting to—to make—to have—for not wanting to fuck around. You needn't worry about me harboring a grudge about it. Or a crush. You don't need to worry about my ickle feelings or that I feel any differently about you. You needn't worry about me at all, because you are a crazy person, and have enough things to worry about."

Harry opened his mouth to protest.

"I care about you," Malfoy said, which made Harry shut his mouth with a sharp click. "I care about you because you are my friend, something like this can't come between us. Ever, because if it does, I will hunt it down. Now, shake my hand."

Malfoy stuck his hand out and Harry stared at it. He felt his heart in his throat, but did not feel the monster in his chest.

That did not mean there was not danger. Harry knew that if he took this feeling too far, he could end up destroying Draco Malfoy. He could get jealous over Malfoy; he could get violent; he could possess him, until only Harry remained. He could be all the things he didn't want to be, all the things Malfoy had helped him move beyond.

In that moment, a choice opened up before him. He could walk away, as he had once done from Ginny, the Aurors, all his friends. He had done it to keep them safe, and he could keep Malfoy safe this way. The next option was to utterly give in, to consume Malfoy and himself in the inferno of his own possessiveness and power.

Love or intimacy were too difficult, but Malfoy wasn't asking for those. Malfoy was asking only for what he could give; he was asking for friendship.

The third option was to walk the line between.

Harry thought that he could try. He might be able to do it. Malfoy made him want to do it.

Malfoy was pulling back that hand and something was shutting down in his face before Harry made a wild grab for Malfoy's hand.

"No need to cripple me, Potter." Malfoy he seemed amused.

"I just—um—you said, about grabbing you, I didn't want it to be—"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Nor will there be sparks whenever we touch. And don't think anything I just said will stop me from hexing you unconscious and stuffing you in an alley in which feral cats will lick off all your skin if you really deserve it. Now let go of my hand. Please."

"Sure."

"And get out."

Harry looked at him in confusion. "I thought maybe we could—" He broke off, frowning. "Why aren't you at work?" It was the middle of the day on a Tuesday; Harry hadn't thought about it. He had come here after Chimera Downs as soon as he was sure he could hold all of himself in.

Malfoy looked lofty. "I have important things to do."

"You always say that whenever you make excuses."

"I'm making an excuse, then." Malfoy smirked.

"But why? Are you sick?"

"Didn't I say you didn't have to worry?"

"That's not how it works." Harry looked around curiously, trying to see if he could divine a reason for Malfoy staying home. Maybe it was the sixty-seven things going on in his living room, but the thing about Malfoy was he most likely always had sixty-seven things going on in his living-room, even when he was gone at work.

Malfoy was rolling his eyes. "Don't you think you could tell if I was sick?"

Harry thought about that day setting up his flat—what Malfoy had been asking, and Harry hadn't realized. There were so many things Malfoy kept a secret, and he still didn't talk about his parents. "Not for certain, no."

Malfoy gave him an exasperated look. "I'm fine."

"But why aren't you at work?"

"Because I want to be by myself! Don't you ever feel that way?"

Harry had felt that way, and Malfoy knew it. Harry had thought he needed to be alone at Chimera Downs, until it had turned out that was not what he needed at all.

"I'll leave," Harry said.

Malfoy briefly closed his eyes, then opened them. "Thank you."

Harry had come with the intention of telling Malfoy he couldn't give him what he wanted. Leaving, Harry was beginning to think he could try at least to give Malfoy needed. He could try like hell.

Malfoy had done as much for him.


End file.
